Ink Warriors: The Two Suethors
by Velvet Nights and Satin Skies
Summary: Daphne and Tolkien are on a suicidal mission to find the elusive Manuscript. Melody an Madison are planning a rebellion in Isengard. Meanwhile, Michael and Isabella are trying to save what remains of the story with the broken Fellowship. Book Two: ON HIATUS
1. Of Quests and Tigers

She crouched next to the guttering fire, sheltering it with her hands and a few green boughs she had stripped from trees. The rain hushed against the leaves which skirted the edges of limbs, and shadows grinned ghoulishly from every crevice. Light melted shyly away as night began to reign, and she swiped rainwater from her eyes, flinging a dazzling spray of droplets from her bangs as she tried to warm her hands. The feeble yellow flames licked tremblingly around the damp wood, dark gray smoke hissing upwards in deep spirals, heating the chilly skin of her palms and wrists. When she looked up, her silver-green eyes, the color of frosted fir trees, scanned the area. The dark lashes fringing her peculiar eyes blinked once, sleepily, and she rubbed her eyes firmly to stay awake. Her cloak was keeping out most of the rain, and her fine Elvish boots warmed her feet, but the drenching rain was horribly cold and the wind was brisk, chilling her wet hair and cheeks. Her once spiked blonde hair was patted to her scalp, and the bleach was slowly fading out of her now light brown hair. It gave her a speckled, striped look like a lazy calico cat. Her friend and mentor was also kneeling close to the fire, burying his hands in his long overcoat instead of trying to coax the feeble flames into exuding warmth. His eyes, dark as chocolate but hard as flint, stared at the fire, the sputtering flames reflected in his dark eyes. She shifted her weight, and this seemed to get his attention. "I am sorry," he said, his voice crackling slightly, "for bringing you along on this journey. I regret it now. You ought to be following the story with your friends. This quest is mine alone."

Daphne looked at him in the eyes, her round features pink with chill and passion. "No, I want to go," she said stubbornly. "My job is to protect the story, and I'm going to do it with you. You're the Author, and I'm your Apprentice, okay? Now, what's this Manuscript that we need to find?" She asked, rubbing her hands and trying to swallow the warmth of the dying fire. Tolkien cleared his throat and looked up, shaking his head slightly.

"Every Author is the guardian of their story," Tolkien said. "When their story is published, they open a world known only to them. As it gains attention, each reader gets a glimpse into the world they spent so much time creating, so much effort molding into a perfect place. But the Author has the special connection with his story – some Readers do as well, but their connection isn't as powerful. At any rate, most Authors are called into their story when something is amiss, when their world is threatened by Perfect Characters or some other rot. So in each story, the Authors protect it with themselves, or, in my case, an object." He paused, taking a breath, and Daphne waited on tenterhooks until he continued. "The Manuscript is my original copy of _The Silmarillion, The Hobbit, _and _The Lord of the Rings_. They are bound together into one book, and it's in the book where the life source, if you will, of Middle Earth is contained. It waxes and wanes along with the story, and with the arrival of Adavis, the Manuscript is at an all time low."

"How do you know?" Daphne asked, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her brows drew together once, creating a crease between her eyes. Tolkien took a breath.

"As an Author, I am tied to my Manuscript. If it is destroyed or harmed, I suffer the same damage, as does the story." He explained. Daphne cocked her head to the side, quick mind trying to understand.

"So, if the Manuscript is destroyed..." Daphne said slowly. "What happens to the story?"

"All entrances into this story are closed," Tolkien said quietly. "People may read it, but they won't be able to immerse themselves in it. They'll find it plain, old, overused, overrated. They'll move onto other stories, completely unaffected and unchanged by the story or the characters. And if there aren't any Authors coming into this world, it will eventually disintegrate."

"So why didn't the Sues go for the Manuscript instead of following the Fellowship?" Daphne asked.

"One, Suethors don't understand how stories work. They've never created stories of their own, so they wouldn't know about the Manuscript. Also, Sues are single minded beings – they must destroy the entire plotline, not the story. If the story is completely about them, then the mission is completed. In a way, Sues are very stupid."

"We need to get the Manuscript and what, protect it?" Daphne asked, confused. "Why isn't it safe where it is now?"

"Not protect it," Tolkien explained patiently. "Activate it. Only Authors have the ability to activate the original story – which would be me. If I can find the Manuscript and wake it up, then the Sues will disappear."

Faint comprehension dawned on Daphne's face. "Almost like running a virus scan on a computer. Okay, so we need to find the Manuscript, and you need to activate it. Then the Sues will disappear? Where's the Manuscript then?"

Tolkien reached in his vest pocket and withdrew the Map. Daphne ran a small finger over the delicate sketches, the silvery runes encircling the outer rim of the paper. In the firelight, the drawings seemed to shimmer and the rivers seemed to move. The fields swayed lushly from an unseen breeze, and the woods stirred imperceptibly. "Under full moonlight, we'll be able to see the path to where the Manuscript lies," Tolkien said. He smiled a little. "If you'll remember, similar writing was presented in the Hobbit. I liked it quite a lot, and I decided to use it for this Map."

"If you put the Manuscript there," Daphne said, "How come you don't know where it is?"

"That would be like asking where your soul is," Tolkien said. "No one can explain what a soul is – in a way, the Manuscript is the heart and soul of Middle Earth. But tomorrow the full moon will be shining at its brightest, and we will be able to tell where our quest will end. For the moment, you should sleep."

Daphne sat back, rubbing her eyes. "I'm not tired," she said with a little pout. "I don't want to sleep. And I'm cold. And hungry. And wet."

Under Tolkien's insistence, she lay down on the driest bit of ground she could find. Tolkien threw his thick black overcoat over her and she snuggled underneath it. It smelled delightfully musky, something like tobacco smoke and vanilla. She opened her mouth to protest, to tell him that he should keep his coat on, but she fell asleep before she could form the words in her head. Tolkien watched her for a while, and then sighed. She hadn't asked the questions he thought she would – she hadn't asked how to activate the Manuscript, or why the Manuscript was asleep in the first place. Tolkien passed a hand over his eyes. He couldn't tell her that it had been his own stupidity, his own selfishness, that caused the Manuscript to be deactivated. He shook his head and watched the slumbering woman.

And he couldn't bear to tell her that by activating the Manuscript, it would cost him his life.

* * *

><p>A bright crimson ribbon of blood painted a stripe down Madison's ankle, and ragged sobs scratched her throat. Her lips were stone dry, and her freckled cheeks were streaked with tears. She was ashen pale, her freckles standing out sharply, her smoky blue eyes rimmed with red and the pain building in her leg. It was bitingly sharp, and with each shuddering leap of the massive wolf, a new jolt of pain shook up her ankle and up towards her thigh. Her wrists were chafed harshly from the cruel ropes cutting off the blood supply to her hands, and her ribs ached from the uncomfortable position. She was slung over Zei's broad shoulders, wounded ankle and tied hands bound together under Zei's belly, and her back stung from the cold rain hammering her body. Above her, the skies were coal black, the heavens splitting into jagged pieces with each flash of webbed lightning. A thunderclap shook the earth itself, rattling the skies like a child would shake a doll. Madison's muddied thoughts were replaced by a blinding white sheet of fear – storms terrified her. The pain and the fear twisted together, and with each new roll of thunder, she screamed. It didn't take long for Quilemna to silence her with a strip of soaked tunic, but this couldn't stop the low, guttural groan that tore from Madison's throat. Her eyes closed, and she fainted. Colors swirled together, and her thoughts melted like smoke in a summer breeze.<p>

To her left, Melody was twisting carefully at the bindings on her hands. She had employed an old trick that she always used whenever tied up – by clenching her muscled when initially tied and then relaxing after the ropes were knotted, she had a bit of wiggle room to work with. She risked quick glances at Madison when the skies flashed with lightning, and saw with grim determination that Madison had passed out. Her terrified shrieks had been drowned out by the crash of thunder, but it hurt Melody like a stab to the chest to see her friend's panicked face. From this angle, Melody couldn't see Madison's ankle, but when they had first begun, it had looked horribly mauled. From Melody's own limited experience in bad leg wounds, Madison would be extremely lucky if she was able to use her ankle again. And the longer she went untreated, the worse it would become. Melody twisted the ropes again and was satisfied when the gave way a little more. She wanted to be tied when they reached Isengard, but she wanted to be able to get out of her bindings in a hurry. Once her hands were free, Melody was reasonably confident that she could get them out of any situation.

Melody wasn't just a pretty face – there was a lot of effort and skill that went into becoming a thief. She was naturally inclined to have quick hands, but instead of becoming a pianist, she became a thief. She knew how to detect if people were lying, knew how to talk her way out of almost any situation, knew how to battle adrenaline, learned how to pick a lock (hairpins didn't work, contrary to popular opinion), and crack almost any kind of safe. She knew that leather gloves were better than latex gloves for not leaving fingerprints (latex left a minimal residue that could be read if not wiped off) and a thousand other tricks of the trade. She knew how to work the account books to hide small discrepancies, knew how to skim thousands in cash without being caught, and knew how to complete anonymous wire transfers. She was working on her hacking skills, but her friend Jack was the best in the trade for cracking cellphones, computers, hard drives, even wiping CDs from three hundred miles away. But none of those skills were going to help her in Isengard – Melody had to rely on a very different set of skills if she was going to live through this situation.

But that wasn't the main problem – the main problem was that Madison had no idea how to do _anything_ except stammer and spout knowledge she had read "somewhere" in a massive book that smelled of old socks. Madison was a coward = a sweet, adorable, lovable coward, but still a coward. She needed to man up. She needed to grow a backbone.

And all of this was erased from Melody's thinking when they saw the tall, jagged spire of Isengard climbing to the sky before them.

Zei and Shonji paused, panting, their colossal chests heaving in unison. _How does yours fare?_ Shonji asked with a glance at Madison. Her face was pure white, completely bloodless, and her ankle was still slowly dripping blood. Zei sniffed, huffing a spray of water from his muzzle.

_She's bad_, Zei said indifferently. _But she'll live – that's the important part. When are those damn girls going to get here?_

_Patience, young one, _Shonji drawled lazily, his tail flicking from side to side impatiently. His soaked purple fur was dripping from his underbelly, small wet peaks forming along the ridge of his sides. _They'll be here shortly._

As he said this, the small shapes of two horses appeared on the crest of the hill. One was a small bay pony, and the other was a stocky gray horse. They trotted down the hill, their cloaked riders shivering and sputtering random exclamations of their coldness. As they drew closer, the Sues relaxed visibly and slid off their mounts. All Sues, no matter how disgusting and hateful, have an inbred affinity for their creators. The pudgy brunette got off her horse awkwardly and returned the fierce hug Quilemna bestowed on her. The skinny blonde allowed Adavis to kiss her on both cheeks. "Ah, your face is good to see," Adavis said, and the blonde girl giggled a little haphazardly.

"Um, yeah," the chubby brunette said. "Amanda? I think we better get going. He'll – He'll be mad if we take too long."

Amanda bit her lip. "Yeah, you're probably right." She glanced fearfully at Zei and Shonji, both of which were eyeing them with something like disdain. "You better get your...rides...over here."

As Shonji drew closer, Melody lifted her head and locked eyes with Amanda. Amanda took an unconscious step backwards, biting her lip at the sight of those glittering honey-brown eyes. Thick, damp strands of beautiful blonde hair clung to the sides of her face, and the skinny girl tugged at her own lifeless blonde plait. She shivered. "C'mon, everyone, we need to go!" She shouted, louder than necessary, and scrambled on top of her horse. The Suethors took off at a dead run down the hill, towards Isengard, and Melody smirked.

_Perfect_.

* * *

><p>Stop. Rest. Breathe.<p>

She could barely lift her feet as she ran stumblingly behind Gimli. Her chest felt as though an iron band had clamped around her throat – her lungs burned. Her legs felt as though they had been dipped in concrete, and she slogged through the puddles, wishing the cold water would soothe the hot blisters rising on her heels. She swiped her dark hair from her eyes and paused to catch her breath. Ahead of her, Aragorn, Legolas, Gandalf, and Michael were running speedily, leaping over boulders and over rivulets of water. They looked so easy and graceful, proud deer bounding in pursuit of their friends. Michael had sworn he had seen Shonji and Zei follow the Uruks, so they were killing two birds with one stone and following their tracks. Sure enough, heavy tracks marked a wolf and a tiger racing ahead of the Uruks, their prints almost invisible beneath the heavy mass of Uruk feet. Isabella's head rang harshly, and the world spun around her in dizzying circles. She stumbled, and before she knew what was happening a strong arm had circled her small waist and dragged her to her feet. "Easy, child, easy," she heard the sweet voice of Legolas murmuring in her ear. "Aragorn!" Legolas shouted, and the lean ranger loped back to where Legolas was holding Isabella erect. "We cannot keep running like this. We are all tired – the Uruks are coming no closer. She is still healing from her wounds."

"We cannot stop now, Legolas," Aragorn said over the roar of the winds. "We are getting closer. I can feel it."

"We are all exhausted!" Legolas snapped. "Running like Morgoth himself won't bring them any closer. They run as if the whips of their Master is biting into their backs. We will not catch them, Aragorn."

"Is this my friend speaking?" Aragorn said disbelievingly. "Is this Legolas, my friend who tells me to never give up, to continue to hope?" Aragorn seized Legolas by the collar, their faces an inch apart. "I will not rest, Legolas, until this war is over or until I am dead. I will find the Halflings, and if they lie dead then I will avenge them. I shall never give up!" He shouted the last five words, and Isabella felt the air between the two friends sizzle with electricity. Legolas's starry blue eyes met his friend's dark gray ones.

"So be it," he said softly. "Come, Isabella, I shall carry you until I no longer can." He made a move as if to pick her up, but she drew away stubbornly.

"If he's not giving up, neither am I," she said frostily. She had no idea what a picture she looked, standing up to her ankles in freezing rainwater, her black hair clinging to her slender figure, fists clenched, crystal blue eyes hard as granite. Her dark brows were drawn together, and she jutted her chin angrily as she glared fiercely at the two warriors, her bangs dripping water onto her face.

"By Eru, you have spirit," Legolas breathed. "Very well. We must run, Aragorn, but not after a quick rest. Give her some _lembas_ bread, and we shall resume our journey."

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><p><strong>AN: I decided to start putting my Author's Notes down here, so not to interrupt the flow of the story. Anyway, I don't know how to chapter turned out – my mother-in-law saps every drop of creative blood out of me, so this may be a little sub par. Anyway, CHECK OUT MY PROFILE! I have Character Pictures for all of the Authors, plus Shonji and Zei! They're anime pictures, unfortunately, but you can go look at them anyway. Alex drudged through the world wide web to find them, and I don't suggest looking at them if you have a very distinct picture of what the Authors look like in your mind. Anyway, ENJOY!**

**Oh, and I decided to publically thank all reviewers! I think I haven't been showing you guys enough lovin'...So review, and be recognized! :) **


	2. Of Ex Dumb Blondes and Horses

**WARNING: STRONG LANGUAGE FOLLOWS. DO NOT READ IF THIS OFFENDS YOU. RATED T FOR A REASON.**

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><p>The sun broke through the downy gray skies, snapping the overcast clouds into jagged brilliance as the tethered sun broke free from its foggy constraints. The thick golden rays filtered through the thinning fog, revealing the figures she was looking for up ahead. Aragorn was waving her over, and Legolas's body was taut as he glared ferociously at the horizon. Michael was sitting down on a rock, breathing hard. The remains of the Fellowship was taking a breather in an outcropping of boulders, all roughly the size of small cars. Michael's hair, once perfect black spikes, were slicked to his scalp and hung in his eyes. He looked wearily up at Isabella who rounded the hill and threw herself on the craggy, unforgiving surface of the nearest rock. Michael's earring caught the light and threw a rainbow of colors against Isabella's cheek, and she swatted at it distractedly. Her head felt stuffed and overly large, and her legs were numb from the hips down. Two hard lumps of lead had replaced her knees, and her thighs were several sizzling strips of bacon. Michael sat up and wiped sweat from the back of his neck, his dark chocolate eyes half closed. "Aragorn," he said hoarsely. "What's that?" Isabella felt it too – the ground was rumbling, and it was more of a feeling than a sound. Her first muddled thought was an earthquake, and she was about to remind Michael about earthquake defense techniques, but then she remembered the legendary eored of horses that would come tumbling down this hill. And if she didn't get out of the way, this legendary eored would mash her like leftover pancakes. She had just marshaled her limbs to move when she heard the first distinct noises of hooves striking earth. Michael, having also remembered the Riders of Rohan, snatched Isabella by the collar and dragged her out of the way.<p>

There is nothing quite like the sight of a hundred horses thundering down a hillside. The horses themselves were beautiful beasts – strong, wide haunches, broad backs, proud necks arched as they pounded down the slippery slope. Armor flashed in the sunlight dully, and bannerettes were whipped into stiff attention by the gentle breeze and the speed of their riding. The device on their shield was of a rearing horse, and Aragorn's breath was sucked in sharply as he realized who they were. He exchanged a significant look with Legolas. "They are Riders of Rohan!" he shouted over the roar of hooves. "They may have news of our friends!" Legolas nodded tersely, still on edge, and Aragorn waited until the remaining horses passed by until he stepped onto the hillside. "Riders of Rohan!" He shouted. "What news from the Mark?"

If a hundred horses galloping is not a majestic enough sight, picture a hundred horses galloping _towards_ you. Michael did not blame Isabella in the slightest when she slipped a hand into his and squeezed in spite of herself, wishing for Michael's dark-eyed serenity. She was sort of developing a crush on Michael – you couldn't blame her, the two of them had suffered so much together that it would almost be impossible for Isabella not to fall a little bit for the handsome Hispanic man. But then again, he wasn't her type – she preferred darker men, with a sense of humor which matched hers: sarcastic. At any rate, she held onto his hand as though holding onto a rock until the entire company of horses had completely encircled them and pointed spears at their necks. In the farthest reaches of the eored, javelins were poised to throw. Michael had the tense feeling that if any one of them moved a muscle without permission, they would all have more spears in them than a pincushion. One of the Riders who was up front did not have a spear, but his hand was resting dangerously close to his sword. "What business does a company of such as yours have in the Riddermark?" The man demanded. "Speak quickly, for I have little patience and even less time!"

"Give me your true name, Horsemaster," Gimli grunted, apparently not taking kindly to being ordered about, "And I shall give yeh mine."

Spears nicked a little closer to them, and Michael hardly dared to swallow, for the tip of a javelin was a hairbreadth away from his Adam's apple. The Horsemaster dismounted and unsheathed his sword. This action was made doubly impressive by the sight of fresh blood stains covering the natural sheen of the blade, and it was an impressive specimen of a man who wielded it. Gimli went suddenly cross-eyed trying to keep the sharp end in sight as it went under his chin. "I would cut off your head, Master Dwarf, beard and all, if it stood but a little higher from the ground," The man growled.

Legolas's already shredded nerves snapped completely, and none of them were quite sure what happened next. The first instant, Legolas was glaring daggers at the Horsemaster, and the next, his bow was strung and an arrow was notched in the string. "You would die before your stroke fell, Horsemaster! Harm one of my companions and you shall suffer my wrath."

The javelin pressed deliberately against Michael's throat, and he stopped breathing.

"Enough, Legolas!" Gandalf snapped, and then turned to the Horsemaster. "I am Gandalf the Gray, and these are my faithful companions. You see Gimli, son of Gloin, in front of you, along with Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood and of the Woodland realm, and Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Along with us we also have two Authors, Lord Michael and Lady Isabella. We are all friends of your king and are servants to your lordship."

It was artfully done, perfectly layered with fact and flattery. The Horsemaster did not appear flattered in the slightest, but he pulled off his helmet and the spears lowered. He was strikingly handsome, with unruly blonde hair that fell to his collar and deep brown eyes that had thousands of golden facets in them. "Your allegiance goes unnoticed by the king," he said heavily, "Much does, as of late. He no longer recognizes kinsmen from foe, and I have suffered because of it. Our king knows naught of the terror that sweeps his land, for Sauron the Poisoner had taken his mind and corrupted his soul. It does my heart good to see that others are still loyal to Rohan, for my company and I were banished for that very reason." He looked up from his boots and glared hard at Gandalf, his hand dropping to his knife. "The White Wizard is cunning. He walks where he pleases, hidden under a cloak and hood. Some say he disguises himself has an old man, with a walking stick and bowed back. And every day, his spies slip unnoticed through our web."

"We are not spies," Aragorn said. "We track the party of Uruk-hai westward, across the western plains. Two of our friends were taken with them, and we go to rescue them or avenge their deaths."

The Horsemaster cocked his head to the side, wondering whether or not to deliver his news. "We also tracked the Uruks," he said slowly. "And we met them in battle during the night." He looked at Aragorn as he said this, and then continued very slowly. "We left none alive."

"Dead?" Gimli said in disbelief.

"Their corpses are piled and burnt over yonder," The Horsemaster said. For the first time, he seemed truly sympathetic. "I am sorry for your loss." Even Gandalf seemed taken aback as he looked at them. The Horsemaster dropped his eyes and then cleared his throat. "Hasufel! Arod! Etun!" He called. Three horses were brought forward. "May these bring you better fortune than their previous masters," The Horsemaster said softly. Numbly, Aragorn took the reins. "We ride North!" The Horsemaster called. When the majority of the horses had departed, he turned his dappled gray horse around and saluted Gandalf with his spear. Then he took off, his huge horse bounding after his companions.

Slowly, silently, the shocked and dejected Fellowship mounted their new horses. With heavy hearts, they turned towards the ominous plume of smoke stretching away in the distance.

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><p>The grooved marble beneath her feet was frigidly cold, and she felt the chill seeping through her boots. Madison was slumped against the wall, her frizzy blonde-brown hair hanging in matted clumps, her smoky blue eyes almost shut. Shonji, his purple fur rippling over sinew-bound muscles, paced restlessly back and forth in front of the terrified geek, somehow comforting her as he purred his satisfaction. Melody, however, stood firmly in the center of the room, her hands bound cruelly behind her back, her ankles still tied and raw from the constant chafing. Quilemna was lounging against the wall, fiery red hair flawless as usual, dressed in her warrior's clothes. Adavis shone with radiant brilliance, her stunning good looks giving the Uruks nosebleeds at the mere sight of her. Melody wanted to give <em>Adavis<em> a nosebleed, preferably with the heel of her hand, but that wasn't going to happen any time soon, seeing as there was a wizard in front of her with a staff in his hand. Saruman was an intimidating man, with long white hair and beard, pure white except for a stripe of black down the center of his beard. Melody wanted to tell him he looked like an inverted skunk, but that wouldn't have exactly improved her chances of escaping. Her bindings had been retied by Adavis, who caught onto her scheme, and this time Melody felt the blood slowly being cut off from her wrists.

"So these are the Authors?" Saruman said disdainfully. "A whimpering, pathetic girl and a woman who looks at me with rebellion?" He cupped Melody's chin with his long-nailed hand, scratching lightly at her cheeks, and tilted her chin upwards so he could look her in the eyes. With practiced ease, Melody masked her rebellion underneath a sweet, don't-hurt-me-I'm-just-a-little-girl look. There was something very mesmerizing about his eyes – deep liquid pools of soulless black. He dropped her chin disgustedly. "They are worthless!" He bellowed, slamming a ball of energy into an innocent wall. The wall gave a little moan and cracked like an eggshell. "WHERE IS THE AUTHORESS!" He roared.

_Hush your noise_! Zei snarled. _The forces of Mordor will hear your petty rants._

_The Authoress is with the Bookkeeper_, Shonji growled. _And anyway, these _lovely_ Sues had the brains to go after these two specifically._

Saruman rounded on the gorgeous Adavis. "You specifically brought the worst two Authors?"

Adavis flicked a finger at him, and a very stupid look came on his face, like he had just sat through the entire ten hours of "They're Taking The Hobbits To Isengard". Adavis smiled beautifully at the goofy looking wizard. "These are the two Authors we want," She simpered.

"These are the two Authors we want," Saruman said slowly, as if struggling to understand. However, he quickly came round with an entirely different tone of voice. "_These_ are the two Authors we want!"

"You want to throw the blonde on in the dungeon," Adavis said with a terrible smile that exposed every inch of her blinding, bedazzling white smile. Melody shot up and glared at Adavis, who wiggled her fingers and simpered.

"Throw the blonde in the dungeon!" Saruman barked, that stupid look on his face making Melody want to laugh.

"Interrogate the ugly one," Adavis ordered. Melody lost it as two Orc hands closed around her upper arms.

"All right, all right! That's _it_! Madison is not ugly, and I am not the most important person in this damned quest! Will you stop persucuting me for being a blonde! I can't help it, you know! I AM NOT A DUMB BLONDE!" Melody shouted as the Orcs dragged her outside.

Shonji dipped his head and swiped his tongue over Madison's cheek before nudging her to her feet. _Stand up, little one_, he ordered. She automatically leaned against the wall, not even risking putting any weight on her injured ankle.

"This is her Book," Quilemna said. "Have one of our Authors read it." She looked lovingly at Amanda, who cleared her throat a little reluctantly. The young girl was obviously terrified, impressed, and a little in awe of the true Authors, all at once. Shonji growled low in his throat.

_Imbeciles. Suethors can't read Author's books, you know that!_ Shonji retorted.

Amanda stepped forward, clearing her throat. The thick, crimson book was handed to her, and she licked her lips nervously as she opened it. For a split second, she saw pages and pages of miniscule, neat script written double spaced on the pages, with a few scribbles in the margins and doodles on the edges, and then it vanished. It was replaced by snowy fields of crisp white paper, and she frowned. "Uh, um, Quilemna?" She said.

_Can't read it, can you_? Shonji said with a mental eye-roll. Adavis snatched the book from Amanda's hands and shoved it into Madison's arms.

"Read!" She barked. "Tell us what changes you've put in!"

Adavis's eyes, now a deep purple-and-silver, would have struck terror into any mortal man's heart. And under normal circumstances, Madison would have been blubbering and sobbing and begging for mercy somewhere down on the floor. But her ankle was on fire, her head throbbed, her wrists chafed, she didn't know where Melody was, and she didn't know whether or not she could trust Shonji. And it was all because of these stupid, know-it-all, beautiful, perfect, SUES. So Madison did something she had never done before and would most likely never do again.

Slowly, she pushed aside her curtain of thick, frizzy hair and blinked at her pages and pages of hard effort. She was almost done with Amon Hen, and she was so pleased with herself. There was no way in hell she was going to spill her guts to a bunch of Sues and Suethors and dumb looking wizards and animals. So she cleared her throat and began.

"Go eat shit."

Absolute. Dead. Silence.

"Pardon?" Adavis said. Madison met her gaze, and Adavis saw that Madison's smoky eyes did not contain the usual meek indifference. In fact, she saw that Madison was wearing an expression she thought she'd never see on Madison, like, EVER. Maybe it was a trick of the light.

It had to be a trick of the light, because Madison looked absolutely _pissed._

"Go eat shit," Madison repeated firmly.

"Go eat shit..." Saruman repeated, his brow furrowing as he tried to understand what it meant.

Amanda and her chubby brunette friend exchanged a glance that was both terrified and completely delighted.

"Yup." Madison said.

"You're mocking us!" Quilemna said finally, the words making sense to her through her dense brain.

"Yup." Madison said.

"How dare you!" Adavis shrieked, catching onto what Madison had been saying.

"Yup." Madison said.

"Throw her in the dungeons!" Adavis screamed.

Several Orcs began dragging Madison away, and the frizzy-haired nerd yelped in pain as her ankle connected with the floor. In her anger and pain, she looked up at Adavis and did the third thing she'd never do again.

She flipped the Sue off, and mouthed the word "bitch".

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><p><strong>AN: Sorry for the STRONG LANGUAGE, but it just seemed so fitting for Madison to swear, because she never does. It would be totally out of character for her to sweat, and that's why it seemed to perfect. ANYWAY, please review! Special Thanks follow!**

**Don't forget to vote for your favorite Author on my Profile Poll! Right now, Madison the Meek and Tolkien the Bookkeeper are winning with 4 votes each. Everyone else is trailing behind. **

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><p><strong><span>~Special Thanks~<span>**

**Firestorm Nauragalos: **Georgia was beautiful, warm, and sunny. :) We stopped going Trick-Or-Treating a few years ago, mostly because it's a late night for the kids and some of the hoodlums that come to our door deserve to be wedgied until their pants are actually level with their waist. So we went to Wal-Mart the next day and bought all the discounted candy and pigged out all day. :D As for Shonji...Well, he might be redeemed. Just saying. But don't keep your hopes up.

**EllieCotton: **I'm so glad you're excited! Please stay excited...I'm hoping to make this a real page-turner...Or update-turner...Gah, whatever. :) Ahah, you think you love Daphne and Tolkien's storyline now, just wait until they find the Manuscript. Mushy scene coming up! :D

**Song-in-the-woods: **Smother-in-law indeed! She just so argumentative, and she doesn't think I should write. She's one of those nagging MIL's who try and control your life from a distance...-.- Anyway, our little 'coward' has some guts after all!

**SweetSylvia13: **Your welcome. :)

**Warriormaid: **You'll find out a LOT about Shonji in the last book. Actually, if my plan works, you'll never stop THINKING about Shonji. Oh, and keep a close eye on Zei as well. (wink) He's so badass.

**Erugalatha Fael-ionath: **BTW, your penname is ridiculously long and hard to type out. O.O :) YAY! You don't know which side Shonji is on! That's my point, and you'll see why in later chapters. :) As for being geeky, girl, you got nuthin' on me. When I was your age, I lived, breathed, and slept Lord of the Rings. I actually still have 90% of my action figures/movies/lunch boxes/assorted LotR junk upstairs in the attic. As for Tolkien, well...I can promise you he won't die YET. Emhpasis on YET. :)


	3. Of Bad Poetry and Injuries

**WARNING: BAD POETRY. I MEAN SERIOUSLY BAD POETRY.**

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><p><p>

The stairs were jagged and uneven, and more than once Madison lost her footing and went scraping down several steps. In this way, it was quite a long time before they reached the dungeons, and by then Madison felt like she might pass out again from the pain. Her ankle was throbbing dully, pounding pain slicing through her hazy thoughts like a shark in a shoal of fish. The dungeons around her were barely lit by flickering torchlight, the sickly flames sputtering in the dampness of the cells. Puddles reflected the torchlight, creating a fantastic illusion that the water was on fire, and somewhere in the deepest bowels of the tower, water dripped slowly, echoing throughout the dungeons. Madison felt the cool water soak her injured ankle, and she gave a little cry as the unexpected sensation rippled up her leg. There was a rusty squeal as one of the Uruks unlocked a door, and Madison was thrust roughly inside. Without the supporting weight of Shonji next to her, Madison swayed, and then fell to the floor with a undignified thump. She felt someone patting her cheeks, whispering something to her, and when she managed to force open her eyes, she saw that Melody was cradling her head. "Maddie?" Melody whispered. "Here, c'mon, over here," she continued soothing her friend, dragging her off into the darker corners. Madison was dimly aware that there were other movements in the shadows, other people moving around, but it was too hard for her to think right now. All she could tell was that the entire cell was made out of thick iron bars, slotting light through around the sides. They looked like gigantic dog cages, she thought blearily.

A boy with shaggy blonde hair and striking blue eyes was examining Madison. "She's bad," he pronounced, whispering as he peeled back Madison's sock. Somewhere in the frantic race to Isengard, her boots had gone missing. Melody winced when she saw the mottled purple bruising, punctured by five dark holes from Zei's teeth. Already, Madison's ankle was swollen to twice its normal size and it was feverishly hot to the touch. The shaggy haired boy – he only looked about fifteen – continued. "Hey, Gwen, can you see if we have any more bandages left?" he called.

"Sure," a voice answered back, and a girl crawled out of the shadows. She had dingy red hair that fell to her waist, and probably would have been beautiful if she wasn't so dirty. She was skinny, with a freckled face and a pointed little nose. A swath of mostly clean bandages were in her hands, and she passed them to the boy, along with a small bottle of murky liquid. "That's all we have left," Gwen said sadly. The boy tilted the glass and examined it in the feeble torchlight, then sighed. His movement were deft and precise, carefully wrapping Madison's foot with the bandages and tying it off neatly. A precious drop of the liquid went under Madison's tongue, and the bushy-haired nerd stirred a little, and then coughed. Melody pulled her friend's frizzy hair out of her eyes and adjusted her glasses, trying to make her look presentable.

"Who are you guys?" Melody asked hoarsely. The shaggy-haired blonde boy rocked back on his heels and scrubbed at his eyes.

"I'm Zeke," he said tiredly. "Zeke Maskowenskie. This is Gwen Thompson. We're two of the six potential Suethors that Sauron dragged into Middle Earth." The way he said it, it sounded so flat and monotone, with no surprising spark of life in his words. "The other four are in the next cell. They separated us because we offered the most resistance." He sighed and leaned against the barred door. "Here, I'll introduce you to the others." he said, and then whistled once, sharply, making Melody wince. "Don't worry," Zeke said, reassuring her, "They don't care how much noise we make down here, as long as we stay in our cells."

There was a rustling noise, and a hand, long fingers capped with dirty nails, poked through the barred wall. There was little light in the next cell, but as a face drew closer to the bars, Melody could see that there was a tall, pale, dark-haired girl looking at them with frightened eyes. "Zeke!" She hissed. "What's going on? Who are these guys?"

"I'm Melody," Melody said. "I'm one of the Authors. This is Madison, my friend, she's an Author too, but she's hurt."

The frightened look on the girl's face melted into one of delight. "Two Authors?" She exclaimed. "Do you have any news? Where are they in the story? Can you write us out of here? Can you send us home?"

"Well, the Fellowship's been broken," Melody replied, her voice getting cracked from whispering so much. "We were taken at Amon Hen by the Sues. So I don't exactly know where we are in the story, but I'm guessing Aragorn and the rest must be close to Rohan by now. And no, I can't write you home. I don't even know how you would do that."

The girl sank back against the bars, disappointed. "Authors can write whatever they want," she explained. "Whatever they write, it becomes real. We thought – we hoped – that when an Author came here, we would be able to go home." She sniffled a little, and Melody saw how young she was. Hate for Sauron and Saruman surged in her breast for capturing innocent children. Also, she wondered if the Suethors in the regular world knew what kind of dangerous situation they were in. If they kept writing bad stories, there might be a chance they would be dragged into Middle Earth and imprisoned forever by Saruman. And judging by the look of despair on the girl's face, being imprisoned was not a happy situation. "I'm Anastasia, by the way," The girl said. "Hey! Bear! Come over here and say hi."

A boy, teetering on the cusp on manhood, slouched over. He had dark, heavy-lidded eyes, and a wide back. He looked like a linebacker for a football team, and there was a perpetual sneer on the corner of his mouth. "I'm Bear," he grunted. Then he spat on the floor. "Told you the Authors are useless."

"We're not useless!" Melody snapped. "The Sue is too strong. It isn't our fault. Tolkien and Daphne are –"

There was a sudden explosion of noise from all surrounding her, and Gwen looked like she might pass out. "_The Bookkeeper is here_?" She spluttered. "No way! We'll be outta here in no time!" Gwen said, jubilant. "Someone's gotta tell Ella, she'll be so psyched!"

Even Bear looked a little happy about it, but Melody threw up her hands. "Okay, okay, okay, slow down," Melody said curtly. "Tolkien and Daphne – she's our leader, kinda – are off somewhere with a Map. Where are they going? And how do you guys know so much? I thought Suethors don't know about the dynamics of stories."

"Normally we don't," Zeke said. "But that's something Ella will have to explain. She's been in a story before." He raised his voice. "Yo! Ella! We have Authors!"

Off to the left, on the opposite side of Bear and Anastasia, a figure stirred. A girl with wintery green eyes cocked her head to one side and examined Melody. She twisted her mouth to the side. "Hi," She said carefully, picking around her words. "I'm Ella. Ella Keys. And you're Melody Miller, and that's Madison Poole. Am I right?"

"Yeah, you are," Melody said. "Now, can you explain what the hell is going on? I feel like my head is going to implode."

"I _used_ to be an Authoress," Ella explained. "But I haven't written anything in a while. Actually, since I got back from my other story." She smiled slightly. "You may have heard of it. I was trying to protect a certain Luke Skywalker from a particularly nasty Sue."

"You were in Star Wars?" Melody said bemusedly. Ella waved a hand.

"For a long time, yeah. But anyway, once that story was fixed, I went back to the real world. I don't know – I just didn't feel like writing after that. So when Sauron brought me here, I already knew the dynamics of all the stories, and he thought I would make a really great Suethor." She smiled a little. "Except, I'm too good of a writer. So I'm here, trying to educate the Suethors about stories." She picked at her nails a little, her queer green eyes dropping to Madison's still form. "Anyway, the Map Tolkien has leads to the Manuscript. The Manuscript is sort of like the heart of a story – every story has one. In Star Wars, it was a digi-chip that was locked in a droid on Coruscant. It was a major pain in the ass to get, mostly because I had to go through all six stories to find it, but never mind. This one should be easier to find, mostly because Middle Earth isn't several galaxies, it's just one world. Once they find it, they should be able to change the story. Except..."

"Except what?" Melody demanded.

"Normally, to activate the Manuscript – or the digi-chip – we had to offer something in return." She sighed. "George Lucas told me that every Bookkeeper has a duty to his world, to protect it in times of struggle, blah blah blah. He –" She stopped, swallowing hard. "He offered himself as a trade for the Manuscript. He lived, but it was like he was asleep forever. Just protecting his story with his mind, forever. I was able to change the Manuscript and fix the story, but Lucas got the short end of the stick."

Melody's mouth suddenly felt very dry. "So Tolkien will have to stay in limbo if they want to activate the Manuscript?" she said.

Ella nodded once. "Yup. And that's only if the Manuscript will take Tolkien as a fair trade. Sometimes they want something more."

"Isn't there a way around it?" Melody asked. Ella shrugged.

"Maybe. But that goes into deep magic – you're playing with the bonds between a Story and an Author. You don't know what will happen – the entire world could disintegrate if you mess around too much."

Melody prayed that Daphne knew what she was doing.

* * *

><p>Daphne and Tolkien watched the stars come out, one by one. Silence had sliced a knife between them, and they remained quiet, their eyes on the map, waiting for the first beams of moonlight to stroke the page and illuminate their path. The forest around them was oddly quiet, as if waiting along with them with baited breath. The Valar's Sickle came into view, stars curving into the familiar constellation, and Daphne watched it. Somewhere, her parents were looking at the same sky, and calling it the Big Dipper. She wondered if they missed her. Probably not. Daphne didn't email them on a regular basis, and they probably thought she was just behind on work or something. Eventually, they would send someone or call her, and then all hell would break loose. She wondered if anyone would connect their disappearances – again, probably not. She sighed and dug her fingers into the log she was sitting on. She loved her parents, and they loved her, but she wondered when she started putting the story over her old life. Protecting Middle Earth – it made so much sense. She felt as though she belonged here, as though she wanted to stay here forever. She liked the big city, but wide open places were so vast and exciting, filling her with the silence and calm, like a soft blanket. She rubbed her eyes and blinked.<p>

The Map moved.

Both Tolkien and Daphne noticed it at the same moment – the silver runes around the edges of the Map began to change and stir, shifting the lines and symbols, arranging into words they could recognize:

_Fire, Water, Earth and Shade,_

_These four things must be on parade,_

_Before the Story must come to an end,_

_An Bookkeeper must change, and make amends._

_The Script lies safe in places three: _

_A cave, a hill, and also a tree,_

_Four Authors set out on Quests of their own,_

_While one stays safe, content, and at home. _

_A Creator must weep, and shed a tear,_

_For her end must come by the end of a year,_

_Replaced by one who is far less fair,_

_A girl who lies spent, a dark rose in her hair._

_An Author will change, their nature less pleasing,_

_For they become hurt from constant teasing,_

_And out of the ashes a phoenix will rise,_

_And a friend will see quickly through her disguise._

_At the end of the world, when all things change,_

_A man becomes healed, and yet stays estranged._

_A world will crumble and hearts beat fast,_

_When the Bookkeeper finally breathes his last._

Daphne had never been big on poetry, and she scratched her scalp. "I don't get it," she admitted. "Are you going to die? And the Manuscript is hidden in three places?"

Tolkien looked just as confused. "I don't understand," He muttered. "A cave, a hill, and also a tree. There's millions of caves, hills, and trees in Middle Earth, blast it! Which ones specifically?"

"Think," Daphne said. "Which cave is the most important in Middle Earth? There's Moria – that's sort of like a cave. And there's there's the Front Porch, in the Hobbit, that leads to Goblin-Town. And the Brockenbores. There's so many caves of historical significance."

"The tree is most likely the Tree of Gondor," Tolkien admitted. "That would make the most sense. But the cave and the hill are baffling to me."

"Oh!" Daphne said. "What if the cave was the Chambers of Fire?"

"In Mount Doom?" Tolkien said, his silver brows drawing together. "That would be unpleasant to travel to. Not to mention it's a bloody long way off."

"I bet that's it!" Daphne said. "The tree of Gondor is important because it's a seedling of Nimloth, right? Nimloth was from Celeborn, and Celeborn was a seedling from Galathilion! And the Chambers of Fire are important because that's where Frodo destroyed the One Ring! I bet that's it!"

"Damn it," Tolkien muttered. "We have to travel to Gondor and Mount Doom? And what about this bloody hill?" He thought for a moment, and then said slowly, "It might be Amon Hen."

"What? We just left there yesterday." Daphne said. "Although it would make sense, because it's the Hill of Sight and all. It could be Amon Lhaw, the Hill of Hearing."

"So it's decided then?" Tolkien said. "Amon Hen or Amon Lhaw, then Gondor, then Mount Doom?" Daphne laughed a little to herself, and Tolkien looked at her. "What's so amusing?"

"Nothing," Daphne giggled. "It just seems like we're being Frodo and Sam, you know, away from the Fellowship, off on our own personal quest."

Tolkien chuckled. "Come to think of it, we are a bit like Frodo and Sam."

"Just don't turn all angsty on me," Daphne giggled. "I'll be your Sam if you'll be my Frodo."

"That sounds uncommonly like a marriage proposal," Tolkien noted, getting to his feet with a smile on his face. It felt strange and good to smile, after frowning for so long.

Daphne, always the quick wit, dropped to one knee. "Oh, Ronald!" She said dramatically. "Will you be my Frodo? I swear to stick by you through thick and thin, and all that snot."

Tolkien laughed and mussed her hair affectionately. "I will be your Frodo if you promise to be my Sam."

"We're not going to adopt a skinny, underfed, bad-smelling psychopath, are we?" Daphne said.

"No," Tolkien laughed. "I can promise you that we will not use Gollum, or any creature like him, on this quest."

"Then we're off?" Daphne said. "I can't sleep anyway. We should travel – the moon's bright enough."

"We're off," Tolkien agreed. Daphne broke out into song.

"We're off to find the Wizard,

The wonderful wizard of Oz,

You'll find that he's a Whiz of a Wiz,

If ever a Wiz there Woz!"

They enjoyed this sparse bit of merrymaking, unaware that the quest they were embarking on would take both of their lives.

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><p><strong>AN: DUN DUN DUNNN! Howzat for a cliffie? xD Sorry for the short chapter, but I can't help it. I am SO SO SO sorry for the bad poetry – I can't write poetry to save my life. **

**REMEMBER TO VOTE IN THE POLL! MADISON IS LEADING BY SEVEN VOTES! (wow, she's popular all of a sudden)**

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><p><p>

**~Special Thanks~**

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><p><strong>SweetSylvia13: <strong>I'm glad you like it! Madison will stand up for herself some more...when she's able to stand, that is. xD

**Erugalatha Fael-ionath: **Hon, you ain't seen nothin' yet. I am not the COMPLETE LOTR FREAK, my husband is. To prove my point, I offer you these facts: 1) We met at a Lord of the Rings trilogy book discussion. 2) When he proposed to me, he proposed to me in Elvish (this is completely romantic, wait until you get married! It sounds nerdy now, but it wasn't seventeen years ago!). 3) My purity ring was the One Ring of Power, complete with Elvish inscription when it reaches a certain temperature. 4) He has an entire shelf in his office devoted to Tolkien-related works and exceptionally good fanfictions. 5) His term of endearment for me around the house is 'melamin'. 6) He has Aragorn's sword, complete with inscribed runes and stars, on his office wall. 7) All three of our children know Elvish almost fluently (it's almost funny to hear Izzy, my middle child, screaming 'Rhachon le!' at her older sister.) 8) We have fondly titled our dogs 'wargs', and their dog dishes prove this. 9) We all know the recipe for lembas bread by heart. 10) His ringtone is the Lord of the Rings theme song. Not to mention that we have both movie versions, and several copies of the books lying around the house. xD

**Warriormaid: **Simple – two per horse. xD

**Song in the Woods_: _**Melody IS a creative genius crook! Just wait until she plans her revolt...Considering you already know that from the summary, that isn't much of a spoiler. xD Oh well.

**Alston Lost in LOST: **Hold that thought, it'll come in later. Sues are powerful things, no? And thank you so much for the compliment – it means so much to me! I'm glad you like the story, and I hope you like this chapter!

**Firestorm N.: **I am taking your advice and abbreviating your name. xD And yes, Madison is HILARIOUS.

**Define X: **Here is your new shipment of addiction...Gah, I'm getting youngsters addicted to stories! Naughty me! xD And yes, Adavis causes everyone to get nosebleeds. Because she's just THAT GOOD.

**LUNA GURLZ**: I didn't even make it through half an hour. I bow before your amazing determination. xD

**butterflyninja395: **Sorry about that! But I disabled anonymous reviews because people randomly go around flaming for no reason at all. I'm glad FF.N developed a button that allows you to delete anonymous flames, but it's a major pain if I forget to do them. For instance, I got a flame once that said "all of ur characters r mary sues u suck" and I was like "Um. Yeah. Okay. Thanks." CLICK-DELETE. So I disabled them. But anyway, I'm rambling! Enjoy!


	4. Of Muse Chasing and Corpses

She was distantly aware of a hand on her shoulder, and she flexed automatically against the unwelcome touch. The chilly air of the hills near Amon Hen nipped her earlobe, feeling quite similar to an ice cube being slicked up her ear. Suddenly, there was a warm breath heating her jaw, and she heard a whispered voice talking to her very quietly. She was quickly aware of the hard, lumpy ground beneath her, and she turned over, groaning to herself, burying her face in her cloak. "Daphne? Daphne, love, we need to get moving!" Said the clipped voice in her ear. She groaned, and her eyes cracked reluctantly open. Above her, the vast expanse of jeweled sky above her twinkled and danced at her in a playful, wild way, the stars curving and knitting into constellations that were both foreign and familiar to her. A hard lump dug into the small of her back as she flipped onto her side, and she sighed, rubbing her eyes. The soft voice in her ear spoke again. "Love, you need to get up! Quickly!" His whisper was harsh and urgent, and it was his tone more than his words that coaxed her into a sitting position. Blearily, she drew a hand across her eyes and tried hard to focus on Tolkien's silhouette.

"What?" Daphne mumbled, pushing her blankets off her knees and getting to her feet. Tolkien was a square black shape, solidly uniform, against the soft grays and navy blues of the darkness around them. His soft brown eyes were hidden under the darkness; all that could be seen was the distinct ridge of his profile, and he shook her soundly as she yawned.

"The Muse! It's gone!" He whispered. "Quickly, you have to help me find it!"

"What muse?" Daphne asked sleepily. "Where did it go?"

"It's running rampant throughout other fandoms – Daphne, you have to help me! Wake up, child, please!" Tolkien reprimanded her. Daphne scrubbed her eyes and blinked hard.

"Okay, okay, I'm up," She said. "Now, explain – what muse, where did it go, and why?"

"Every Author has a Muse," He explained impatiently. "Including you, and yours is gone! As you very well know, Muses are vital to any Author's success! Yours is gone, it's disappeared completely, and we have to find it before it's too late!"

"Wait, slow down," Daphne said. "I have a Muse? What does it look like?"

"For every Author, it's different," Tolkien said quickly, "But we have to go find yours quickly, _now_, and you must follow me!" He took off towards the stark black mountain of Amon Hen, and Daphne stumblingly followed him, wondering why she didn't feel the loss of her Muse. And then the sensation stole over her quietly, like frost creeping over dewed grass – she felt uninspired. It was that plain and simple, just the inability to write or think properly. She could actually feel the space in her mind that was usually occupied by her ideas for stories, like a gap in a row of teeth. Her mind was turning slowly, like rusted cogs, and she slapped her cheeks to wake herself up more. When Tolkien stopped, she almost ran into him. "Down here," He said hastily, pointing down towards a large tree that stretched spiny fingers clawing at the huge silver moon in the background. Looking closely, Daphne could see where a hairline crack had appeared in the tree's bark; this was only possible because it appeared to be a stripe of purple, as though violet lights were glowing from the interior of the tree. Tolkien reached for the tree trunk and peeled back a section of bark, bathing the duo in gentle purple light, which lightened progressively towards the center until it was pure white. As Daphne concentrated, the whiteness expanded until her entire vision was swallowed by the pinprick of whiteness. There was a tilting, stretching, tearing sensation, and they emerged with their feet on something hard and solid, but everything was pure white.

"What happened?" Daphne asked, bewildered.

"Shh," Tolkien shushed her sharply. "Just wait."

Slowly, gray fingers of paint began dripping from the sky like soft tears, circling into shapes and pictures, outlining trees and meadows, like oil paints on a blank canvas. Colors stole shyly over the outlines, until the two of them were standing in a meadow of astonishing brilliance, with a hard blue sky above them and pure yellow light spilling from everywhere. Daphne blinked and shook her head. "Okay, where are we, and what just happened?" She asked. Tolkien made a 'just-wait' motion, and he peered about them.

"Ah! There!" He said, pointing towards the horizon. Far in the distance, they could see a faint black dot disappearing, and Tolkien took off after it. Daphne trotted after him, panting.

"Slow down, Tolkien! What's going on? Where are we?" She pleaded. She pulled up short when something moved out of the corner of her eye. It was an orange and red creature, as tall as a man, with flames licking wildly around it's body and a hideous grin on its face. A long, hooked nose exuded sizzling white mucus which dripped onto it's curved, horned feet, and Daphne felt her nose wrinkle involuntarily – the thing was horribly ugly. But it wasn't the dripping nose or the talons or the fire, it was the _eyes_ – soulless black eyes that echoed into infinity, twin red flames of malice where pupils should be. It let out a long, screeching cackle, and laughed dramatically, hands on its hips.

"Mwhahaha! I am a Flamer, and I've stolen your Muse!" It cackled. It's voice was terrible, like grating, crunching glass and squeaking cellophane and nails down a chalkboard all mixed in one. Daphne backed up.

"You're a Flamer?" She gasped. "No!"

"Yes! I am a Flamer, and I've stolen your Muse and put it ... here. Isn't it a lovely place?" The Flamer grinned. Tolkien stepped forward aggressively.

"Give the Muse back, you blaggard," He growled. "Daphne needs her Muse for us to get the Manuscript!"

"I _know_ that, you stupid old man," The Flamer wheezed, wiping another glob of burning white mucus from its long, warty nose. "That's why I stole it. You'd think I was stupid or something. I put it here, in the Chronicles of Narnia – try getting it out of that!"

"Daphne," Tolkien said, turning to the young, confused woman, "call your Muse."

"How?" Daphne sputtered. "How do you call a Muse?"

"Preferably, you call them with stimulating music, coffee, or other items of interest," Tolkien said, "but if you give a good long shout, it ought to hear you."

"Uh, okay," Daphne said uncertainly. She glanced at the Flamer, who was grinning manically at her, and then cleared her throat. "Muse? Musey-poo, come to mama! C'mon, sweetie, I have, uh, some nice...Muse treats for you! C'mon! We have to go now, okay, honey?" She tried whistling a few times, clapping her hands and glancing hopefully at the horizon. Then, with the gradual sensation of a freight train, she felt emotions flooding her system as something – or someone – steadily approached. The Flamer stamped its ugly feet and did a little dance of rage.

"No, no, no, no!" The Flamer shrieked. "This isn't supposed to happen!"

He snapped his fingers just as Daphne saw the figure approaching. All she was able to see was coffee colored skin and white teeth before it disappeared with a pop, bringing with it all the inspiration she had been feeling a moment ago. The Flamer hissed in triumph, and Tolkien swore explosively. "Now what have you done with it, you horrible Flamer?" Tolkien demanded. The Flamer smiled.

"Try Scotland now, old man!" The Flamer cackled. Tolkien gestured impatiently to Daphne, who came over to him. The old Author bent and plucked a buttercup with two fingers – instead of breaking away from it's stem, a whole square of earth pulled up like a trapdoor, and the three of them – Flamer, Authoress, and Author – fell inside.

They emerged in a dark hallway, with stone walls enclosing them and torches guttering in sconces along the walls. Daphne blinked, now utterly confused, and looked around. A few doorways branched off, and she saw schoolroom furniture filling them, complete with chalkboards and desks. The Flamer sneered at them. "You'll never be able to get your precious Muse out of Hogwarts, foolish Authors!" It smirked. "It's schmoozing with Professor Snape and Lupin right now – you'll _never_ get it out! Mwhahaha!"

"Oh yeah?" Daphne said, feeling a little cocky now. "Muse! Honey, come on!" She said in a firmer voice. "Come on, Muse, it's time to go home and write. We have our own story to save, remember?" She said crisply. There was nothing, and she felt a little sense of desperation creeping over her. "Muse! Come on! If you don't come right now, I'll have to tell on you!" Who she was going to tell, she had no idea, but that's what she said. "Muse! If you don't come right now, so help me, I'll ground you to Disney movies for a month!"

Slowly, the emotions crept back over her, flickering like a low candle flame around her mind, and she saw a shadowy figure pass around the corner. The Flamer made a move as if to stop him, but Tolkien glared at him and said "Oh, no you don't!" In a very loud voice. The Flamer cowered a little when Daphne faced her Muse, shielding his eyes when the Muse rounded the corner. Daphne's silvery green eyes widened when she came face-to-face with her Muse for the first time in her life.

He was, without a doubt, the most handsome, beautiful, gorgeous Muse she had ever seen in her life.

He had dark, coffee colored skin, with a blinding white smile and laughing blue eyes that shone like sapphires. Thick, black curly hair fell to his jawline, and the hint of a gold earring glinted behind the curtain of dark hair. A lightly starched white shirt hung open on his muscular frame, revealing smooth, hardened muscles and a strong, flat chest. His shoulders were broad and his waist tapered slightly, giving him a sturdy, muscular appearance. Dark jeans cupped a rather nice looking rear end, and a tattoo decorated his inner wrist, an wolf howling at the moon. He slid a finger under her jaw and closed her mouth with a click, a cocky little grin quirking the side of his mouth. "Hey, Author," He said, his voice melodic and deep, roughened subtly on the edges like carpenter's hands. He cupped her cheek, running his thumb in small circles over the soft skin, and Daphne felt herself blush in spite of herself. "Sorry I had to take off for a bit. Your mind was elsewhere, so I was too."

"Yeah, my mind is definitely elsewhere," Daphne said aloud, her voice a little hoarse. She blinked, and then shook her head like a drunken dog. "Tolkien, uh, how do I get him back where he belongs?" She asked. Tolkien glowered at the Flamer.

"He'll resume his duties back in your mind when I get rid of _this_," Tolkien said, pointing at the Flamer. The hideous creature howled in rage and threw itself on the floor, pounding the tiled floors with its fists.

"Noooo! You can't abolish me! I'm a Flamer! I'm a worthless piece of humanity! You can't do this to me! Noooo!" He wailed, pleading with Daphne. "Please! I didn't mean it! You can't do this do me!"

Daphne tore her eyes – with difficulty – off her Muse, and turned her attentions to the Flamer. "Oh, go stick it," She snapped. She clicked her fingers together. "Get a life, you little dweeb."

And with that, the Flamer vanished in a plume of smoke.

Daphne turned to her Muse, a smile curving her mouth. "Now, where were we?"

Tolkien cleared his throat. "We were getting back to our story," He said firmly.

"Oh, please?" Daphne begged, linking her fingers with her Muse. "Just give us twenty minutes?"

"None at all," Tolkien said. "I'm glad you have a good relationship with your Muse, dear, but we really have to get back to the story at hand."

"Really?"

"Really."

Daphne looked wistfully at those beautiful blue eyes, and then sighed despondently. "All right. C'mon, let's go," She sighed.

Back in the Middle Earth, she jolted awake. She sat up, looking around, and saw Tolkien fast asleep on his side. She frowned, and then turned inside herself. She could see her Muse, clear as day, lounging in the back of her mind with that handsome grin on his face. She settled back under the blankets contentedly, closing her eyes. She and her Muse had a good relationship. They would stick together, Hogwarts or no Hogwarts.

* * *

><p>Smelling burning corpses isn't pleasant, and Isabella held her nose as she examined the speared head of a particularly ugly Uruk-hai as Gimli, Gandalf, Aragorn, and Legolas, went through the heap of bodies. Michael was standing off to the side, his nose wrinkled, trying not to inhale any more scent than he needed to for survival. Seeing so much death and decay was finally getting to him – at least he didn't have to kill any humans. Just the thought of the life leaving another human's body made his palms sweat and his stomach turn. Killing Uruks and Orcs he did thoughtlessly, like a machine, just employing every ounce of knife-fighting skills he had. But killing another human was out of the question. He had seen one person die, and that was enough. More than enough. He closed his eyes and tried to force the memory from his mind, submerging the pained look on the little girl's face in the farthest vestiges of his memories. Isabella's voice broke cleanly through his morbid thoughts. "Did you know in some cultures today, you are beheaded for stealing?" Isabella said dryly, still glancing at the speared head of the Uruk. "And you are also put on display for three days, or until the carrion have completely picked your skull clean.<p>

"Thanks for that great mental picture, Bella," Michael said flatly. Isabella glared at him.

"I told you once before, Michael, it's _Isabella_. Not Izzy. Not Bella. Not Belle. _Isabella_." She said coldly. Michael threw up his hands.

"All right, Isabella," He snorted. "Damn long name if you ask me."

"Nobody did ask you," Isabella sneered.

"I hate to interrupt this lovely banter," Gandalf shouted from a good distance away, "But we happen to be having a crisis over here! If you Authors would kindly join us, then we would be most grateful."

Isabella and Michael came over slowly, looking at Aragorn, who was still on the ground, staring at Fangorn forest. "Forget it, Ranger, we're not going in there," Isabella said cuttingly. "The Hobbits are safe with Treebeard. We need to get to Rohan _pronto_."

"You could have mentioned this before, lassie," Gimli grunted. "Save us a good distance of running and worrying."

"I could have," Isabella said snidely, "but it's so much more fun watching you sweat." She curled her lip and jerked her head towards the horses. "Come on, let's get to Edoras, the smell is getting to me."

"Wait, Lady Isabella, our duty is to the Hobbits," Aragorn said, looking a bit miffed that he had run all this way just to be ordered about by a child. "We shall not rest until we know they are safe."

"They're safe, take my word for it," Isabella snapped. "Now come on, lover boy, let's go. Gandalf has a king to exorcise."

"Uh, Isabella?" Michael said, pulling her aside. "I've been thinkin'. How can Gandalf exorcise Théoden if he's still Gandalf the Gray? Remember, he can't fight Saruman unless he's Gandalf the White."

"Don't you think I've thought of this?" Isabella growled. "If there were honestly any other option, I would take it. But as there is, there _isn't_ another option."

"We could kill him," Michael offered.

There was a long silence.

"I didn't think of that."

Isabella coughed a little, and then adjusted her hair, which was tangled and dirty. "Nevertheless, we can't. Can you imagine the consequences there would be for killing a wizard? I won't have the Valar on my case, especially not Nienna."

"So we're just going to prance off to Rohan and hope for the best?" Michael asked. "Don't seem like a real good plan to me."

"It has a twenty eight percent chance of success," Isabella said, looking at her horse doubtfully. "And it was the best plan of many that I considered. Now, give me a leg up."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I would thank each of you seperately, but that would take all day. So all I can say is this :Thank you. You can't imagine how grateful I am to each and every one of you who offered my kind words of support, wisdom, and encouragement. All of you have earned a special place in my heart, and I hope you enjoy this weird little chapter. My Muse has returned! (And unfortunately, he doesn't look like Daphne's Muse), so this story will be updated once more! Please enjoy, review, and thank you once again.**


	5. Of Cliffhangers and Returns

Melody had grown up having everything she wanted. Everything she could have ever dreamed of – toys, clothes, boys, a nice house. So nothing in her life, including her successful voyages into the criminal world, could have prepared her for the helplessness she felt at this very moment. There was nothing to say, so a dull, oppressive silence blanketed them thickly. Nothing to do, so they sat and watched the life drain out of Madison. It wasn't the bite that was giving her so much trouble – it was the infection. Every hour, or roughly a hour, Melody changed the bandages on her ankle, methodically working her way through all of their shirts and tearing them into long, ragged strips. There was nothing to do, nothing except sit and watch Madison thrash feverishly and moan in her sleep. None of them knew what fevered horrors scraped through her mind while she drifted, untethered, between waking and dreaming. Every time Melody went to touch or soothe her, her fingers were burned on the hot skin. It wasn't a dry heat – Madison was coated in a fine sheen of slick, sticky sweat which smelled and felt unhealthy. The wound on her leg was horrendous to look at; four black-purple puncture wounds, swollen to twice it's normal size, surrounded by reddish, puffy skin, oozing clear pus. She would be lucky if she got to keep her leg, because the infection was seemingly settling in her Achilles. The medicine Zeke had given her had cooled her fever and taken some of the swelling down, but then the medicine had run out and she was back to thrashing and screaming.

Surprisingly, Bear was the one who was the most comforting. He leaned through the bars and stroked Madison's wrist while he talked – a low, murmuring monotone that sounded like white noise in the silence. Melody couldn't distinguish any words, just slight inflections in his words and vowels. Ella had tried to make conversation a few times, but every time Melody had shaken the girl off, choosing instead to bury her face in her hands and have a little cry to herself. Everything was going wrong – she couldn't lose Madison, she couldn't. Madison was so...innocent. Like a little fawn, curled in the grass, completely trusting of everyone and everything, content to stay in her nest of friends and books. There was no hate – she couldn't hate Zei for injuring Madison. He was a wolf, was just doing what his instincts told him to do. She didn't feel any emotion at all, just a tired, blank, drawn nothingness that filled her head like a blank canvas. She longed for Michael – he would say something funny to take her mind off things, hold her when she cried. Actually, the memory which she kept returning to was the panicked moment when Michael had saved her from the Watcher. Waking up, seeing those worried blue eyes staring at her, his presence around her, that funny little scent that lingered around his cinnamon colored skin...That was something she could get used to.

Her romantic thoughts were interrupted by the loud, brash clanging of the door jumping from the wall. Adavis strode in, her long, flowing black hair cascading in perfect ripples down her back, her long, creamy legs hidden underneath skin-tight leggings. How the woman managed to get mascara and thigh-high boots in Middle Earth was something Melody would never know. A tight tunic was buttoned over her full bosom, the poor, overworked buttons crying for mercy from pressure. Behind her, his huge purple frame glossy and shining once more, stalked a proud and regal Shonji, his thick tail swishing lazily. Liquid black eyes regarded the pathetic little group they made, and the beautiful purple fur rippled over sinewy muscles as he slunk behind Adavis. The beautiful elleth strode past their cells without even looking at them, far down the hallway into the darkness, out of sight of the group. Shonji, however, went over to the bars and dropped something into the cell, glass pinging against the stone as it fell from his maw. Anastasia scrambled for it, fingers scratching against the dirty, straw covered floor, and picked up a small, finely crafted crystal bottle. She tilted it against the light, measuring how much liquid was in the tiny bottle, and then crawled over to Madison. "Enough for a swallow," She muttered, and Melody stared stupidly as Zeke cradled Madison's head while Anastasia poured the liquid down her throat.

The effect was almost instantaneous. The sick sweat dried up on Madison's body, and her cheeks began to gain a healthy glow to them, a ruddy rose blooming in her cheek. Her breath caught, and then she turned her head, body going slack in Zeke's grip. "What happened?" Melody asked, skidding on the floor and panic creating a metallic tang in her mouth.

_Be at ease, Author_, Shonji growled. _She's recovering._

"What did you do?" Melody snarled, and she felt anger sear through her – brutally hot, a white cloud of anger – and she was glad. She could feel something, damn it! She stood up and slammed her hand against the bars, the crash echoing in the stillness. "What did you do?"

_You ought to be grateful,_ Shonji said smoothly, baring his fangs in a hiss as his whiskers went flat on his face. _That medicine is extremely rare and doesn't even exist in this world. She'll be good as new in a week. As for you, control your demon temper, Author._ Shonji warned, and strode off with a flick of his tail.

Melody looked at the now-sleeping Madison and frowned. Was it possible? The anger lingered, and she clung to it. No, it had to be a trick. She dropped to her knees again and shook Madison hard, rattling the woman's teeth in her head. Both of her smoky blue eyes opened a little, the silver-gray gauzing the deep cerulean. She made an incoherent noise in her throat, something like "Erugholas" and fell asleep again. She certainly _seemed_ healthy, Melody decided, but she still hugged her anger to her jealously. She wanted to feel something except the nothingness, and the anger stung her awake.

Adavis came striding confidently back from the darkness, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "I hope you're more receptive than our Creator. She still won't tell us the truth, and she'll suffer because of it." Adavis said sweetly, jingling the keys on her wrist. "Come on, you little Orc," she said, crooking a finger at Melody. Melody actually growled – a low, primal, feral noise in her chest, and Adavis smiled. "I was hoping you'd take that attitude," She said, and opened the door, taking a coarse rope from her pocket. With a flick of her wrist, she pinned Zeke and Anastasia to the wall, leaving Madison still asleep on the floor and Melody exposed and without support.

Or so she thought.

Adavis learned at that very moment that Melody, when cornered, was rather like a wolf in a trap.

A _possessed_ wolf.

* * *

><p>Daphne pushed herself upwards with the heels of her hands, staggering upwards on the final few steps. Amon Lhaw had been a huge, major bust, and now the sun overhead was shining a feeble, shivering coat of warmth over them. Her arms and legs ached from walking up so many stairs, but Tolkien appeared to be quite unaffected by the distance. He was waiting for her at the top of Amon Hen, looking around with a hand shading his eyes, the distinct scent of his pipe weed clinging to him. Daphne flopped on the ground and threw a forearm over her eyes, panting, her blonde hair in sweaty tangles. Lately, the frosted blonde in her hair had been wearing out from the constant attention from the sun and weather, and her original mousy brown was coming back. She hated her hair color – although, she had dyed and streaked her hair so many times she was actually surprised to see that her original color was coming back. She cracked open an eye and peered at Tolkien, who was sitting tentatively in the huge, rough-hewn chair perched atop Amon Hen. Reluctantly, Daphne got to her weary feet and went over to him. "It's not here, is it?" She asked, rubbing her eyes. She looked around – they were on the very top of Amon Hen, surrounded by nothing but sky and the plains below them. They had perhaps a ten foot area of exposed ground to search, and she could tell there was nothing to be seen.<p>

"No, it's here," Tolkien said softly. "Feel it." Daphne blinked, and looked around. "No, don't look for it," Tolkien reprimanded gently. "Close your eyes, and feel."

Obediently, Daphne closed her silver-green eyes and waited, expecting a crashing realization to come sweeping over her. But instead, there was a patient, gentle nibbling in the very outskirts of her consciousness – like a rabbit sniffing the breeze before it steps into the open. Without thinking, she turned towards the feeling and poked it suspiciously, then felt it retreat, only to come back a little stronger. "Oh!" She whispered, feeling the strange, alien thing twitch and circle her mind. "I feel it!"

It wasn't like a presence, she decided. It was more like a small urn, well decorated, but hidden out of sight at a loud party. If anyone took the time to notice it, they would see how pretty it was, but with their eyes open, they couldn't see it. Daphne opened her eyes and turned jubilantly to Tolkien, who was smiling at her. "See?" He said. "It's here – we just don't know where the devil it is."

With a sigh, she sat down on the large bench where Tolkien was sitting, leaning back in the uncomfortable seat. Without warning, the seat dropped, rather like a roller coaster, plunging both Tolkien and Daphne into an abyss which yawned beneath them. The disappeared into the chasm, chair an all, leaving behind a smooth, grassy patch where an Author, an Apprentice, and a chair once stood.

How long they fell, Daphne didn't know. Later, she remembered that they must have fell quite a long ways, because she had time to run out of breath from her screams. Any fall from this distance not only should have killed them, but reduced them into nothing but slimy, pulverized jelly with the texture of cooked oatmeal. She vaguely heard Tolkien also yelling his head off, and she had a dim thought – _Are we dying?_ – before they landed, quite hard, in a pile of leaves. Despite the cushiony landing surface, the breath was knocked from her body and she had no control over the ragged gasps hiccupping from her throat. After what seemed like forever, she clawed her way out of the leaves and realized she was over her head in dried plants. She waded her way to the top, kicking her legs as though she were swimming, and called out. "Tolkien! Mr. Tolkien, where are you?"

"Over here," Came a rough voice, and Daphne waded over to him. She winked several times, trying to erase the rose-and-yellow colored spots from her vision, and then she realized they everything was utterly black. You can't possibly imagine how black it was, unless you put a blindfold on and swim in a vat of chocolate treacle in a dark closet. Her flailing arms hit something solid, and Tolkien gave a little yelp. "Blast it, you found me!" He snapped, and she heard a rustling noise as he began to wade through the thick leaves. "Where the devil are we?" He sputtered, spitting out dry leaves.

"Under Amon Hen, I think," Daphne answered, kicking her way on top of the leaves. "Wait, I feel something!" She said excitedly. "It's a lip, like a shelf, I think." She said, and her booted feet scraped against the stone. Slowly, the pair moved towards the stone edge, and they managed to climb on top of the stone shelf surrounding the pile of leaves. Tolkien shook his head like a dog trying to rid water from his ears.

"Do you see that light?" He said suddenly, and Daphne looked around. Sure enough, there was a faint blue glow, like a tiny pinprick of light, far, far above them. But there was another light, a softer, rosier flame, and Daphne started off towards it suddenly. The velvet blackness swathed her, and she held out her hands for balance and to feel for any obstruction. "Wait!" Tolkien called after her, and the two of them were holding hands in an instant. "Do not let go," He warned. Normally, she would feel awkward holding hands with any male – dating opportunities were slim, even when she had a normal life – but they had been through so much together she didn't react in the slightest. They fumbled their way through the blackness, towards the soft rosy sheen ahead of them, tripping over their own feet in the blackness. The walls were jagged and dull, but as they drew closer to the light, Daphne could see tiny flecks of gold and silver sparkling in the stony walls. The floors, however, were smooth to the point of being slippery, and several times Daphne appreciated how clumsy Madison usually was. Just the thought of Madison, lost somewhere, sent a stab of pain through her heart and she swallowed a knifelike sear of bile in her throat with difficulty.

However, as they finally turned a corner, they were bathed in the golden-pink glow, like the embers of a setting sun. There, on a crude stone pedestal, stood a sloppy-looking sheaf of papers, shuffled a few times, a few corners sticking up in tiny flags of surrender. The light seemed to come from the paper itself, reflecting around on the dark walls. Tolkien and Daphne approached it slowly, reverently, and when they drew level with it, Daphne saw just how battered the first section of the Manuscript was. She reached for it, wanting her fingers to brush across the smooth, satiny surface of the paper...

"Don't."

Daphne turned to Tolkien, her brows knotted. Tolkien had a forced, neutral expression on his face, something akin to an expression carved in stone. "Don't touch it. You'll activate it."

"Why is that bad? I thought we _wanted_ to activate the Manuscript." Daphne asked, confused. Tolkien dropped his gaze, and Daphne's silver-green eyes narrowed. "You're hiding something," She said slowly. "What."

"You'll have to go through the last leg of the Quest by yourself," Tolkien said quietly. "Manuscript's take the life of an Author when they're activated."

The words hung in the air for a moment, an elusive mist shrouding the air. "No!" Daphne finally said, her voice childish and petty. "No, you can't activate it! I will!"

And before Tolkien could stop her, she slammed her palm on the Manuscript.

* * *

><p>The horses hung their heads as they approached the city, their iron-shod hooves dragging dully against the cobblestones. A crow was perched on the gable of a straw-thatched roof, his beady black eyes examining the pathetic little party coming into the city. Shutters were closed, doors bolted, and there wasn't a single person out in the streets. Black material had been hung over a few windows, and Michael and Isabella exchanged a significant look. Even if Théoden didn't remember his own son, his people certainly did. The normally lush, purple plains of Rohan were faded to a dull, cottony gray, and the sky was suitably darkened for the period of mourning. Gandalf dismounted the dappled gray horse, and Gimli dismounted with far less grace. Aragorn and Michael swung themselves off, Michael managing to stumble halfway down and get his foot stuck in the stirrup. Isabella was sleepy and cranky, her dark eyes ringed with bruise-colored circles, and Legolas was gentle when he awoke her, fearing she would snap at him with her usual wintery bite. However, she followed them with remarkable docility, up to the guards who stood at the Keep.<p>

One of the guards was young, blonde, and scowling, with shards of azure ice for eyes. "You are not permitted to appear in the Court of Edoras so armed, by order of Grima Wormtongue," He snapped. "Your weapons will be kept safe until you return."

Gandalf exchanged a look with Aragorn, and then they began to – almost comically – strip themselves of weapons. First, Aragorn's long, beautiful sword and sheath was handed over, along with two throwing daggers, a hunting knife, and a poniard strapped to his leg. Legolas passed over his slender, razor-sharp White Knife, along with his quiver of arrows and his carved, honey-colored bow. A wickedly curved skinning knife had been secreted in his sleeve, and this was also reluctantly passed over. Gimli, however, was the grand finale – no less than six throwing axes, two full-sized, double-headed axes, three dirks (which were sort of like short swords for the Dwarf), and a small, wooden club. All of this was heaped in a glittering pile outside the door, and the blonde guard turned to Isabella and Michael. "Weapons?" He asked bluntly. Michael shook his head and his lightning grin flickered on the corner of his mouth.

"Nope," He answered. "Not a single thing. Although Bella over here, she's got a pretty sharp tongue. Ain't that right, Bell?" He said. He could heard her molars grinding together.

"I told you," She growled from between locked teeth, "not to call me by any insulting nicknames. I stand by what I said, and I warn you – the next time you call me anything other than 'Isabella', I shall hire Gimli to make sure your death is slow and painful." She snarled.

"I see what you mean," The guard said tightly, and then turned to Gandalf. "What of the old man? Is he armed?" He asked, addressing his question to Aragorn. Legolas opened his mouth as if to protest, but Aragorn  
>overrode him smoothly.<p>

"No, he's a doddering old thing," Aragorn interrupted. "Doesn't know where he is, half the time."

"Very well," The guard said mechanically. "You may proceed."

The small party went forward into the shadowy, dusky darkness of the Keep. However, when the doors boomed shut behind them, they saw that the whole hall was filled with a silvery glow. A loud voice startled all of them, and they saw a small, skinny boy shouting something. "Bow, and worship in the presence of the beautiful, the immortal, the faithful, the Empress! She is our Queen, our Savior, our Beloved! Bow!"

Bewilderingly, their eyes focused on the shimmering circle of light which shone brilliantly on the throne. Six jaws dropped as they saw who was sitting calmly on the throne.

Because, instead of a crazy Theoden, there was a radiant Ethwein looking at them somberly.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Three cliffies! Yay! I know you all hate me...Oh well. xD **

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><p><p>

**SweetSylvia13: **Aww, I'm glad you like this story so much! I hope it cheers your day up again! xD

**Dizzydaydreamer: **The muse idea was actually my brother's plot bunny. He wanted to make a whole story about it, how Muses were departing for Middle Earth and ten fanfiction Authors had to chase them and got stuck in the Quest...Yeah. He says a lot of stuff like that when he's had my tiramisu.

**Lobo de Fuego: **I hope I spelled your name right...Anyway, I am so flattered by your review! You have no idea how much ego-petting you just gave to an old mom! Thank you so much, and I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint!


	6. Of Killing and Awakening

Isabella hadn't felt quite so stupid in all of her life.

She had an IQ of 138, had defeated countless older Grand Chess Masters, defeated every video game and RPG game she found on the Internet, could speak three different languages, and was slowly developing into a moderately good writer. So why, she asked herself, did she miss such an obvious plot hole? Of course, Sues can't just _die_ – they can only die when it's angsty and troublesome and everyone can't live without her. Simply dropping off the cliff edge like that tore such a huge plot hole that she was surprised that the story was still together. How, how, _how_ could she have missed something like that? She cursed herself inwardly and actually stamped her feet against the smooth stones, berating herself for being such an idiot. And now she was here, in a place of power, when Isabella should have anticipated it. She balled her fists and glared at the Tragic-Sue, who was looking at them through thick lashes, her eyes deep and wise and sorrowful. Michael quirked his eyebrow, folding his arms as he got over the element of surprise. Everyone was exhausted, and his legs felt like they had been doused with wet cement, but now he was wide awake and adrenaline was hammering through his system, flushing out his weariness and replacing it with an artificial energy. The entire Fellowship seemed bewildered, their jaws dropping, staring at the Sue, who was looking back at them with those sad, sad eyes, so sad that they made all the sufferings of the world look like scraped knees. Her eyes, those eyes were more than sad, they were so breathtakingly forlorn that they made the most bereaved widow and star-crossed lover look bright and cheerful. Legolas wept silently to himself, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

As if connected by a puppet string, Gimli, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gandalf all bowed, dropping to one knee and keeping their chins to their chests. Isabella was still staring at Ethwein, her jaw slightly slack, her crystal blue eyes unfocused and stupid looking. Michael blinked, and then ran his scraped his hands along his jaw, feeling the new growth on his cheeks rasp beneath his palms. "Well, this is awkward," He said, his New York accent twanging along his words. Ethwein rose silently, her pure white gown sliding in dove-colored folds down her slender waist. Her arms and shoulders were exposed, and Michael saw deep scars – pink scars, newly healed, and old, silver ones, white with age. And of course, her physical scars being what they were, her "tortured soul" was sure to be much worse.

"How is it awkward, Lord Michael?" Ethwein said in a voice purer than sunlight through a stained glass window. She moved with the softest grace, floating down the steps and approaching the tired group of travelers, and knelt before Aragorn, tilting his chin back and running her fingers through his shoulder-length hair. He couldn't stare up at her face, but from this position, his eyes were level with her generous bosom, and she dropped a light kiss on his forehead, practically squishing the poor soul against her. "I have seen love, and seen it taken away," She said, and a perfect crystalline tear slid down her cheek. "And yet...something that died with my beloved Tunivar has been rekindled with you, brave knight." She said, and, with a graceful gesture, bid them to rise.

"Well, it's awkward because you were sort of supposed to be...you know, dead?" Michael said, a smirk skittering up the side of his face and disappearing just as quickly. Ethwein turned to him and focused those deep, wise eyes on him and sniffled delicately.

"I fought long and hard, with the demon they call the Balrog," She said softly. "But in the end, my powers were too much for him, and I smote his ruin upon the mountainside."

"Boy, you really like stealing his lines, don't you?" Michael interrupted curiously. Ethwein continued as if not a person had spoken.

"And when I at last defeated my enemy, I was called to the heavens and blessed by the gods above..." Ethwein said, tilting her face back and extending her arms, closing her eyes as if still connected to the spirit realm. To Michael, she looked like she was on crack.

"Do you mean the Valar?" Isabella said, finally speaking for the first time. Ethwein blinked exactly twice, and then turned her beautiful, tortured eyes onto Isabella.

"I mean the gods, the spirits of the woods...The Lord of Dreams blessed me and sent me back to this realm, and the Mighty God of All Creation and Epic Pwnsomeness also blessed me," She said, her voice stumbling slightly. Her voice cracked, and she blinked twice again, her shoulders twitching spasmodically. In her dreamy, fragile voice, she said softly, "and it was like, so totally hot, yeah!" And then she blinked again.

"Do you mean Irmo and Manwe?" Isabella said. "And there's no such thing as a Mighty God of All Creation and Epic Pwnsomeness, at least not in this world. Even Manwe was limited."

"I meant what I said!" Ethwein said, pouting a little. "And do not question me, little girl!" She said, pointing a finger at Isabella. "Lock her in the dungeons, with the old fool!" She said, and cackled. "As a matter of fact, lock them all in the dungeons, especially the smelly dwarf!"

Guards came from all sides to try and arrest them, but Gimli and Michael put up a hell of a fight. Gandalf was still staring soppily at Ethwein, and Legolas was sobbing his heart out over the pain in her eyes, so neither of them were much use. Isabella, of course, didn't try very hard either, because she was fourteen and pasty while the guards were in the prime of their lives and muscle bound. Gimli was subdued under a literal pile of guards, and Michael was dragged off by three of them, but the guards only had to crook a finger at Gandalf and Legolas, and they followed like kittens. Gandalf left, and murmured, "Whatever you wish, my dear," towards Ethwein, and then left with a dramatic sigh. Legolas was sobbing uncontrollably, and Aragorn was left alone with the Sue in a large, empty room.

She approached him, one hip at a time, her breasts full and tantalizing. She slid her hands up his shoulders, feathering along his jaw, and he lost himself in those eyes. "Ease my pain, beloved," Ethwein said in his ear. "Please...Do not keep me in agony...Only you can ease my pain..."

There was something important, but his mind was so foggy. Something connected with the pendant around his neck meant the world to him, meant more than heaven and earth and life itself...But he couldn't think of what. All he could think of was Ethwein's sweet perfume filling his senses and dancing through his mind, sending sparks of passion lighting through his system. And then she kissed him, passionately, deeply, kissing him with everything she had in her. His hands were at her hips and he couldn't think of anything else.

And then, knifing through his thoughts like an arrow from a bow, was one single word.

_Arwen._

Instantly, he shoved her away, dragging a wrist across his lips. Everything about Arwen was filling his mind, the feel of her velvet skin beneath his calloused hands, those dark, pleading eyes, her thick, dark hair glossing through his fingertips. Those satin lips beneath his, and every particle of him was on fire for her, for his Arwen, and he could feel her immortality seeping into his veins, into his very soul, because they were connected, bonded, forever, longer than eternity. And he looked at Ethwein with disgust, seeing for once the shade she really was, a thin, worn out paper lantern stealing the glow of another to light herself. And he snarled, a low, primal growl in his throat, and glared at the Sue.

_Awakened._

* * *

><p>Adavis stood there smugly, her perfect complexion unmarred by anything, her long, thick hair plaited behind her. To her left, a bound and gagged Melody stood, blood glazing her temple and cracking at the corner of her mouth, her eyes alive with hate and rage. A thick wedge of leather was jammed between her teeth, and her hands were bound cruelly behind her back, but if looks could kill, Adavis would be in a grave, pushing up the daisies, pulled down the curtain and joined the choir invisible, a stiff. Basically, she'd be deader than a doornail, but Melody didn't have the powers of the Evil Eye. Actually, nobody had the power of the Evil Eye, except Sues, who gave people nosebleeds just by smiling. At any rate, Melody was angry and Adavis was smug, because she was a Sue, and therefore, couldn't be beaten by mortals. Pain was lancing up her back from the tightness of the bonds, and she felt saliva pooling in her mouth from the gag, but still Melody glared. In front of her, stalking proudly across the floor, was Shonji, his thick, glossy coat shimmering in the light of the sconces on the walls, purple striking out boldly against his black stripes. His thick, velvety paws rose and he began washing his ears, barely sparing Adavis a glance. <em>Leave us now, Adavis. I wish to have a word with our dear Author.<em>

The Sue flipped her hair and left, leaving Melody bound and gagged with a very large tiger. She smirked and banged the door behind her, the noise echoing in the huge, high ceilinged room. Shonji prowled behind Melody, his tail swishing lazily, and then pounced, his steely claws slashing out and ripping the bonds from her hands with one swift slash. The moment her hands were free, she rolled away from him and worked the leather wedge from her mouth and tossed it aside. She shot to her feet, keeping both eyes fixed on the prowling tiger. _Bravo, Author_, Shonji said lazily, circling her. Melody moved with him, not allowing him to go behind her. _Although, not entirely unexpected._

"What do you want?" Melody demanded. "And whose side are you on, anyway?"

Shonji sat, those huge black eyes meeting Melody's. _Side? I am on nobody's side, dear Author. Only my own. And what I want from you is very simple, actually. _

"Your own side, huh?" Melody asked, panting slightly from excitement and from her recent duel with Adavis. "And what to you expect out of this whole thing, huh?"

His eyes blazed into burning coals. _What do I want to do? I want to hurt all Bookkeepers, just like they hurt me. I want to steal the story they created, and by doing so, I used the help of Suethors. Is that really so terrible?_

"If you're hurting innocent people, then yes, it is!" Melody snarled. She backed away from him, searching for some sort of a weapon. He was huge, steel-bound muscle wrapped with silky purple fur, and there was no way she could fight him. But still, maybe she could lie her way out of here. She edged around the room, trying to figure out what he needed from her. She didn't know what card to play, and she hated feeling like that. Because she was a thief, after all; she knew that you had the bluff to win the game, to pretend that you had the cards even if you didn't. But she didn't know what to do, didn't know what game they were playing. So she dropped her gaze and waited for him to say something, waited to see what she had to play.

_Oh, come now, you can't pretend you have morals,_ Shonji purred. _You're a thief, after all. We're one a kind, then. I steal ideas, and you steal money. _

"I only steal because I'm good at it," Melody snapped. "And because...I want him to notice me." She looked away, knowing what to do. She was going to play the broken little girl, something that worked on almost everyone. She pretended to muffle her sniff against her shoulder, allowed Shonji to look at her smugly, and threw him a forceful, angry look. "Take a picture, it'll last longer," She sneered. Shonji felt triumph sear his veins.

_Yes, your father, am I correct?_ Shonji said, resuming his prowl. _You wanted _attention_...Well, Author, I'm willing to give you all the attention you desire. There is one simple thing I need you to do, but first, I need a test. _

Melody's honey-brown eyes flickered once, and she glared at him. "What kind of a test?"

_It's simple_, Shonji purred silkily. _Go over and_ _look in the palantir. I think you'll be surprised._

Hesitantly, she approached the small crystal ball, standing on the roughly-hewn stone pedestal. Her hands hovered above the glass ball, not touching the slippery surface, a diver about to take the plunge. She didn't even know why she was doing this, but something told her it had to do with the Quest. So her fingers skated over the palantir, and then finally gripped it between two hands. Instantly, the large room around her swirled and melted into dripping puddles, reforming into longer, thicker shapes. She was in Théoden's hall, standing in his courtroom, but instead of Théoden, she saw Ethwein in all of her terrible glory. In front of her, was Aragorn, looking fearful and uncertain. Those emotions looked odd and out of place on his face, for he was so courageous usually that the emotion of fear looked strange in his eyes. And she approached him, seductively, sensuously, and Melody had tempted enough men and boys to know what she was going to do next. First, there would be the lash lower, dipping her gaze for a moment, and then came the touch. Usually resting her hands on the victim's chest, or encircling his neck, and Melody saw that Ethwein was going for the former. And then, oh, Melody knew what came next like she knew the back of her hand – that kiss, a fiery, unquenchable kiss which drove most boys wild.

And Melody had done it enough to innocent men and boys to know that it usually turned their legs to jelly. She knew that it worked, knew because it's how she had gotten into so many places to steal things, with her looks. It was imperative that Aragorn know what was happening, know what was going on! He had Arwen! He couldn't go back on her now, cheat on her with his Sue! So she did the only thing she could do – she dropped the palantir and screamed "No!" with all her might.

And whether it worked or not, she never knew, because the connection broke and she found herself staring into the satisfied eyes of Shonji, his huge black eyes smirking at her.

* * *

><p><em>Whiteness...<em>

There was an elusive, swirling whiteness around her, like mist shrouding a field...

_You have failed and succeeded, Authoress..._

_And when shall the Authoress rise to the challenge? _

_For how can an Authoress complete her story and protect her characters when she is dead? _

_Ah, the questions..._

The voice was so dreamy and far away, like a distant dream half-forgotten and barely remembered. She turned towards the voice, because the light was all around her, and the voice was somehow familiar and important. She was standing on something solid, but the mist, ah, the mist burned her bare ankles and forearms as it cocooned her in swaths of whiteness. Her eyes stung and wept as the blinding mist wrapped her, and yet she still kept moving towards the voice. And she realized dimly that she was also moving towards shadows, a vague greyness and blackness that provided a welcome relief from the stinging white light. Her eyes burned and shed tears of pain, and yet she still kept going forward, until she was wholly in the gray area. The burning sensation faded away, and she was able to open her eyes, to focus in on her surroundings, the hideous light eased. Farther ahead, the light decreased even more, and she followed it, along a tunnel or perhaps a vortex, she wasn't sure which. Her mind and thoughts were muddled and uncertain, and she couldn't think straight. But when she reached the gray area, her mind went utterly blank.

She was in a graveyard.

A dead tree, black branches clawing at the overcast skies, held a single ragged crow, cawing out harshly against the eerie whispering which threaded through the tombstones. For yes, there were tombstones, as far as the eye could see, curved gray rocks with ragged words on them, words that made no sense to her whatsoever, in all different languages and tongues. She would have stood there forever had she not caught sight of the woman standing a few feet away.

The woman was bent at the waist, with a hump over her right shoulder, and fluttering black robes covered her thin, skinny frame. Two gnarled hands, papery white skin stretching over jutting bones, gripped what looked to be a large, oversized quill pen. The quill itself once had been white, but dampened from the misty breezes and smeared by the dirt on the woman's robe, forming it into a long, ragged thing, streaked and scuffed into a dingy form. The woman was cloaked and hooded, by Daphne could see the long, flat, stringy brown hair falling out of the hood. The face was wrinkled into a pruned peach pit, a sagging line for the mouth and a thick nub of bone for the nose, peaking out sharply from her wrinkled cheeks, decorated by an ugly wart on the side. Two wispy gray eyebrows arched above her sightless, milky, protruding eyes, those eyes which disgusted her and fascinated her all at once. And then the sagging mouth moved, and she spoke in a crackling, crunching, grating voice which sounded like nails down a chalkboard and grinding glass and shrieking bats all at the same time. "Author," She rasped. "Welcome...to the place where stories go to die."

Daphne didn't know what to say, didn't know what to think. "Why...Why am I here?"

The woman laughed, a wheezing, horrible, choked laugh, a ribbon of saliva dripping from her toothless, gaping mouth. Daphne winced. "You activated a part of the Manuscript, naughty Authoress," the woman said, wagging a bony, lumpy finger at her. "And now, your skill is forfeit."

"No!" Daphne said, backing up. "No, I can't! I'm an Authoress, you can't do this!"

The woman extended her quill towards her, and the tip began glowing like a cattle brand. Daphne backed up slowly, her silver-green eyes wide and terrified. She kept backing up until she hit the rough, scaly bark of the tree, and instantly she felt two slimy roots extend out of the ground. The sticky, miry roots encircled her waist and legs, pinning her against the tree, and it was then that Daphne began to scream. The screams were razor-edged, terrified, glassy shrieks of anguish which could only come from a woman. The old woman advance, the tip of her quill glowing cherry-red, and Daphne started thrashing. Branches rattled eerily against each other as they descended to pin Daphne to the tree, and another root slid slimily across her mouth, muffling her screams. The only thing she could do was sit there, her heart beating like runaway horses, and wait for the quill to come into contact with her skin.

It did, directly above her heart, and even the root couldn't muffle the hideous shriek that tore from her throat.

It was a burning, ripping, tearing sensation, as the quill dug into her chest. Blood spurted from the wound, and Daphne bucked against the tree, trying to end the agony. Because this pain wasn't just physical – she could feel it, a raw, ripping sensation slicing against her soul, as if her heart and mind were being torn apart. The pain was intense, primal, a savage beast shredding her to pieces, and then the quill jerked out of her chest with a sickly 'pop. Crimson stained the front of her tunic, and Daphne sagged against the tree, her eyes going bleary and unfocused. Blood began seeping down her sleeve and trickling off her fingertips, dripping onto the ground and staining the mist rose.

Perched on the end of the quill was a tiny golden bird, no larger than the palm of your hand, the wings intricate and delicate, silver feathers trimming the soft golden body. Innocence lit its eyes, and it peeped softly as the old woman drew the bird closer to her, allowed it to perch on her palm.

With a sickening crunch, the fist snapped shut and destroyed the little bird.

Tolkien was cradling Daphne's body, feeling for her pulse and heartbeat, feeling the tempo stamp a tattoo against his index finger. He had lost comrades in battle before, had seen people die, but this was different. He had never been saved by a woman, never seen someone sacrifice themselves for him. He wasn't ashamed to weep, to shake her in an effort to wake her, but he knew her. She would be dead within minutes, and already her skin was taking on a grayish tinge and a sheen of sweat was coating her upper lip. Then she coughed, blood spattering his face, and he saw blood staining the front of her shirt. Bewildered, he ripped at her tunic, tearing the thing in half with his hands, and stared in astonishment at the stab wound, a deep puncture oozing dark blood onto her chest.

She coughed again, and her eyes opened weakly, her silver green eyes flicking open to reveal a dull, listless gauze over her features. "Daphne? Daphne! What is it? What happened?" Tolkien demanded, setting her down gently. She coughed, spattering more blood on the ground, and rolled over, her fingertips extending to the Manuscript, which lay right where Tolkien had dropped it. Her unfocused eyes stared at the pages, but the scribbles and figures made no sense. She couldn't read, and the pain was crippling her mind. But she couldn't read. It took her a moment or two to remember what happened, for her fuzzy mind to make sense of it all. It was then that she realized exactly what the woman had killed.

She had killed her ability to write.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry for the long delay...My daughter, Alex, just got her braces, so she's been going around the house moaning and groaning from the pressure. According to the dentist, I have five more days of misery before the pain lessens and my little girl will act normally again. Why am I telling you all this? I have no idea. Anyway, please review, and if you like Harry Potter stories, check out my Severus/OFC story "Theoretical Love". Anyway, enjoy!**

**butterflyninja935: **Yowch! I fear the wrath of the ninja butterfly! Lol, here you go, sweetie.

**Firestorm N.: **(smile) There's no such rule on this story...Review all the chapters you want! Actually, that would be helpful, to let me know exactly which chapters you liked. Anyway, it'll be a while before any MS's go down, but I can say that there will be plenty of fun for Aragorn in later chapters! Mwhaha!

**SweetSylvia13: **Wow, you really know how to butter me up...Here's the next chapter, and I hope you enjoy it as much as the last one. Oh, and by the way, that was a typo...But I don't feel like going back to remove an apostrophe. xD And Shonji will make sense in later chapters, when you found out who he really is...xDDD

**Warriormaid: **Sorry for the slow updates...But I am a mother of three and a homeschooling wife...so, yeah.

**Patriot16: **Yes, that's the point of Shonji...I hope your finals went well! What were your grades?

**Define X: **Yes...More nasty cliffies...Sorry. xD

**Lobo de Fuego: **Madison and Legolas are just too cute. But, I can promise you will absolutely hate me by the end of this book...Lol. And Daphne has always been a hero, but I don't think anybody knew it. Least of all, Daphne.

**Caffeinated Star: **I'm glad you enjoy it, and I'm sorry it's going too fast. I'm glad I have a reviewer like you to tell me the truth about it, and please stay with the story, even if it's just to say which chapters are horrible, lol.

**crimsoneternal: **Yay! A new person! I'm sorry that you can't review anonymously, but now that you have an account, you can snoop out all the excellent fanfiction in this fandom and favorite them! I've been having some problems with flamers lately, so that's why I disabled anonymous reviews. Anyway, I'm really glad you like my writing and I hope you stay with the story. xD


	7. Of Dreams and Missing Things

Michael curled his lip at the squeaking in the corner; growing up in New York City had given him a level of the intelligence of rats and other vermin, and he had no need to fear them. Isabella, however, having read _1984_ at perhaps a younger age than she should have, was sitting on the only wooden bench in the cell with her knees drawn tightly to her chest. She looked terrible – that once long dark hair was horribly tangled and her pale face was whiter than usual. She rested her forehead against her forearms and sighed to herself, those sharp, flinty blue eyes closing in a rare moment of vulnerability. Michael had to keep reminding himself that she was very, very young – fourteen was no age to be running around Middle Earth after Legolas and Aragorn, trying to write Mary Sues from stories. He picked at the filthy crust of black goo on the uneven floors, his booted feet scraping dully against the flagstones. The cells were damp and muddy from almost constant traffic, and the rustling and squeaking in the corner marked that the entire prison had an unhealthy infestation of rodents. The front of the cell had thick, rusty bars blocking the prisoners from the narrow hallway, keeping the entire room visible to the jailor's eye.

"This is ridiculous," Isabella said quietly. She peered at Michael through the soupy gloom, and he saw that her curtain of black hair had turned into a frizzy mess. "I can't believe we've been put in jail by a Sue. I'm so _stupid_. I should have seen this coming." She sounded for an instant like the girl she could have once been, and Michael felt sympathetic.

"C'mon, Isabella, we're not perfect," He said. She raised an eyebrow.

"Just because your intelligence level is considerably lower than my own, you can't make excuses for either yourself or me." Isabella said. Michael closed his eyes and smiled in spite of himself. You can't feel sorry for her for long, Michael thought to himself. Because as soon as she opens her mouth again, she says something snarky. Then she managed to shock him out of his skin. She sighed, rubbed the bridge of her nose, and tilted her head back against the wall. "I'm sorry I snapped," She said softly. "I'm just ... everything's been happening so _fast_. I've never felt this ... _childish_." She looked at him, and he didn't quite know what to say. She waved a hand at him. "Never mind. I wouldn't expect you to understand, anyway."

In the next cell, Aragorn was looking at what had been Theoden-King, leader of Rohan. He looked the same, with a blonde beard and stocky build, but there was a dullness to his once-passionate blue eyes, a meekness to his fiery edge which had sharpened him into the hero he was. In his recently Awakened mind, Aragorn had a million conflicting thoughts and emotions coursing steadily through his veins. His duty to the throne, his love for Arwen, the delight he took in hunting in the woods, it was all tangling itself in his mind and soul, bonding the two of them irreparably. He heard Legolas still sobbing in the other corner, and Gimli was still grumbling to himself. Gandalf had a look in his eye like a glass-eyed lamb, and a very stupid grin as though he were a grandfatherly old man instead of a powerful Gray Wizard. Aragorn could see how foolish he had been, how ridiculous he had acted around Adavis and Ethwein and the rest. Oh, it was like a bath in a cool spring after a long day of marching, to look at things as they truly were, instead of how the Sues portrayed them. "Legolas, mellon, have faith," He said, calling across the small cell.

His answer was another tormented sob. "H-her eyes," Legolas sniffled. "Th-they were s-so..._anguished_. I would do anything, _anything_, to ease her pain..." He said, still crying. Aragorn rolled his eyes.

"Legolas!" He snapped, his answer a gruff growl. "Become yourself! Cease your thinking of this terrible creature – she is merely using her eyes as a ploy, a device to ensnare you! Think of what you hold dearest, _mellon_, do not think of her charms! It is a deception! She is stealing your own light to further her own existence, she is _using_ you! Her poison will trick your mind into believing what is not real!"

_Think of what you most hold dear_.

Images of Mirkwood crowded into Legolas's mind – all of it's dark, green, overgrown glory. The long, webbed shadows, thick moss creeping over the ground, trailing vines hiding tiny nooks and crannies perfect for meditation and spying. Brooks fringed with green ferns, moss carpeting the grounds, wound through the woods, the cool, fresh spray slicking the gnarled tree roots, and he could almost taste the crisp breeze. His talan, an elegant structure built sturdily into three trees, their thick trunks supporting the thatched roof and carefully constructed walls. There was a little path, shrouded completely in branches and leaves, which twisted mysteriously through the woods and led to a small glade where deer slept, a path he took almost every day, to hunt or simply to watch the beautiful animals. He could see the small dents in the dark grass where the deer covered their young, could smell the musty, dark scent which clung to every surface. But he still heard Ethwein's tormented sighs, her anguished eyes haunting him with perfect clarity.

He thought of Madison.

She reminded him of Mirkwood – underestimated, shy, the beauty hidden behind her nervous laugh and thick, odd glasses. He thought of her brown-blonde hair, frizzy and curly, divided behind her into two neat sections. There was a scattering of freckles just beneath her eyes, only visible when she took off her glasses, and those pouting, rosebud lips which were so inviting and adorable. He drew up every memory he had of her, barricading Ethwein's eyes out of his head, replacing her instead with those silver-blue, smoky eyes, so often narrowed with worry and concern for others. That anxiousness that prevailed through everything, the desire to do things perfectly, he remembered everything, good and the bad. Her glittering lump of pyrite that hung on her leather strip around her neck, her tight, conformed stance which held herself close together. Her fear of horses, flying, heights, death, separation, blood, the ocean, and swimming. Her hidden strength, masked by all of her worries and fears and stresses. Her fear of life. Her fear of herself.

His eyes opened, and Aragorn saw the shift in his demeanor. "Are you ready to dethrone Ethwein, _mellon_?" Aragorn asked. Legolas met his gaze, and there was that peculiar triumphant fire which usually blazed them sparking in them now.

"Aye. I am."

* * *

><p>The wound on her chest was deep. His shoes made sloppy, scuffling sounds as he slipped in the black pool of her crimson blood, adjusting his weight as he tried to staunch the flow of liquid. She was so very pale, the color of a snowbank, her silver-green eyes closed and her chest hitching only occasionally in breath. He had bunched up half of her tunic and pressed it against the wound, but it was now sopping wet and didn't seem to have any affect at all. "Daphne, love, don't you dare give up on me," He growled, turning the wad of cloth over to hold the slightly less stained side to her wound. She had been through so much, fought so bravely; she was his daughter and more, his consort, his friend, his man-at-arms. She admired him, he could see it in her eyes almost all of the time, and he wasn't going to sit here and let her die because of a foolish mistake on his part. He should have never told her, should have just activated the Manuscript himself! But then, she would be the one here, crying and trying to stop the bleeding, feeling utterly helpless as the blood kept pouring out. She coughed once, bringing a fine mist of red on her lips, and then opened her eyes. Was it possible she was smiling?<p>

"..._fine..."_ She whispered, less than a breath. "..really. Fine."

"You are anything but fine," Tolkien snapped, and a raspy intake of breath from Daphne's blood-spattered lips proved his statement. "Be still, love, don't you dare move. I need to see if there's anything I can use here to stop the blood." He looked at her, and felt a growing, roiling nausea in his gut as the bright red liquid seeped against the rag.

"Oi. Yeh need 'elp?"

Tolkien spun around, every nerve tense and frayed, probing the darkness viciously with his eyes, searching for the hidden voice. "Who's there?" He called out, her voice shaking slightly. "Show yourself!"

A portly dwarf, his brown beard a tangled mess of hair, peered out of the gloom back at him. "Yeh need 'elp?" He repeated, and Tolkien saw what an odd little fellow he was. He was no higher than the average dwarf, but his beard was far longer and his clothes were filthy rags, held together by dirt and luck. On his bag was a gigantic pack, a bundle of cloth tied over a bulging array of tools, weapons, and other flotsam and jetsam. Several dingy ropes held everything together, and it had been strapped onto his back. Held loosely in his fist was a pickaxe with dirt still on the blade, and his eyes glowed beadily in the darkness. When he grinned, it exposed his three teeth, one of which was plated with gold. "A dwarf," Tolkien said gratefully, "Yes, thank you! Please, can you help her?"

"Yer an Author, ain'tcha?" The dwarf grunted, cocking his head. Come to think of it, there was something distinctly off in his eyes. "I kin sense it. Yeh touched me book, dincha?" The dwarf growled, and shook his pickaxe threateningly. "I wuz told not tah let anybuddy but dah Creator touch that book, I wuz."

"My _wife_ is the Creator, not me," Tolkien snapped. "And she needs help! Please!"

"She's yer wife?" The dwarf said curiously. "Daon't look like yer wife."

"No, she's my Apprentice," Tolkien snarled. "Now either help me or get out of here! Please!" He said, and the dwarf shrugged.

"Fair 'nuff. Give back th' book." The dwarf said.

"Help her first!" Tolkien insisted.

The dwarf spat on the ground. "Th' Toppers kin 'elp yeh. I'll 'elp yeh get to th' surface," He said, and then reached behind him, rummaging for a torch in his huge backpack. Tolkien heft Daphne in his arms – she was limp and unyielding in his grip, but Tolkien did his best to keep her still. She was lighter than he thought she would be, which was surprising – all of the walking and weeks of eating mangy rabbit had starved a few inches off her hips. The dwarf took his sweet old time in lighting a torch, and when Tolkien made a strangled noise of anticipation in his throat, the dwarf finally trudged off down the corridor. Tolkien followed hastily, hurrying after him, and the three of them began their trek.

He never knew how long they traveled – it felt like seconds, but it could have easily been ten minutes or more, because Daphne grew very still and her breath almost stopped completely. The path they were taking was sloping steeply upwards, and it was almost impossible to carry Daphne and walk at the same time, but he found some unknown well of strength he didn't know he had. A heady, pounding thump of adrenaline scorched through his system, and when they reached a large, oval opening, he stopped for breath, wondering why he was exhausted but strangely wired. The dwarf went over to one of the walls and slapped it three times with the butt of his torch. "An Author 'an 'is 'Prentice," the dwarf boomed. There was a horrible grating, crunching, grinding noise, and a slab of rock wall slid back slowly. Another dwarf, this one who appeared much younger and dressed much better, peered at them warily from the darkness.

"An Author?" The dwarf said, and then looked at Tolkien. "Valar! This isn't just _an_ Author, it's _The_ Author! By Aule's hammer, it's The Author! You crazy old fool!" The blonde-bearded dwarf chastised the doddering elder. "Come in! Valar! Come in, I say! Bring your wounded, quickly!"

Tolkien felt a crushing, dizzying sense of relief swamp his senses, and before he knew it, dwarves of all ages were crowding around him. A plump, good-looking female dwarf – who did not exactly have a beard, although she did have the chin for it – took Daphne from his arms. Another dwarf took his coat, and yet another began unlacing his boots. Before he knew what was fully happening, Tolkien stood in front of a large tribe of dwarves, his chest stained with Daphne's blood, and his young Apprentice nowhere to be found. "We are the Final House of Dwarves," A deep voice growled near his elbow. "I am Jormunt, the leader of this House. Please, Author, come take your rest."

"Just a moment," Tolkien said, his head beginning to pound due to the savage whirlwind of events which happened so damned quickly. "Just a bloody moment," He said again, and groped for his jacket.

The Manuscript was gone.

* * *

><p>Madison almost always remembered her dreams. She liked them – her father used to tell her to write them down, so as to remember them with better clarity. That was how she first started writing, through dreams. Eventually, she polished and embellished them in small ways, fixing the strange elements and polishing off the odd edges. She would sit on her father's old lab chair, with his stained white lab coat around her shoulders, and read them off to him. She could see him now, his funny, frizzy brown-blonde hair sticking up, his glasses perched queerly on his nose, those electric blue eyes grinning at her. "That's good," he would say after a particularly long storydream. "You ought to publish that." He made a point of making her remember them.

So it wasn't a mistake, then, that she had the most vivid dream of her life.

She had been sitting in her father's lab, as usual, the surroundings so familiar she saw every clear bottle and humming Bunsen Burner with perfect clarity. The metal stool beneath her squeaked, the ripped black vinyl covering tickled the inside of her knee. The lab always had a funny smell to it – something like singed hair and burned plastic, a combination which would have smelled acidic to anybody else, but it smelled like home to Madison. She hugged her knees, feeling five years old again, and wished her father were here to tell her what to do. She could still here his voice, that smooth, accented voice reading _The Hobbit_ aloud to her – he was the one who had introduced her to all of Tolkien's works.

Suddenly, so suddenly that it would have alarmed her if she hadn't been in a dream, there was a woman in front of her. And it wasn't the tall, blonde, beautiful form of her mother – it was a short, plain looking woman with black hair neatly pinned up by her head. "Hello, Madison," She said, her voice tweaked with a British accent. "I needed to talk to you, and I can't reach you where I am right now."

"Where are you?" Madison asked, feeling only a dim, dull sort of surprise that she was talking to a random stranger. "And who are you?"

The woman cocked her head to one side, offering a little smile. "I am Edith Tolkien, the Creator of this story," She said, sounding a little sad. "And I only have a few minutes until I have to stop talking with you – it's taxing me enough just initiating this dream."

"But how can you initiate a dream?" Madison asked foggily.

"No more questions," Edith said, looking nervously around. "I don't have much time to spare, so I shall be brief. I am the Creator of this story because I gave Ronald – my husband – the idea for it. My version was shorter, with not enough plot to warrant a real story, but I was the one who started him down the track of _Lord of the Rings_. I suppose that most of this is my fault," She said, and looked around again. The room seemed the shimmer, almost imperceptibly. "Madison, you _must_ remember this," She said hurriedly, licking her lips. "You _must _leave Isengard as quickly as possible. Daphne and Ronald have activated the first part of the Manuscript, and they don't know what they're doing. If they activate all three –" She broke off, and this time the room trembled, a vibration steadily growing. " – they mustn't activate all three! You must stop them from doing so!" Edith said, raising her voice over the sound of the humming.

"But why?" Madison asked, growing alarmed at the panicked tone in Edith's voice.

"Go to Gondor!" Edith commanded. The room rumbled. "Go to Gondor and destroy the second part of the Manuscript! You _must_ do this, Madison! Your lives are already in grave danger!"

The whole room crumbled into nothingness and Madison heard a raw, chilling scream before she awoke. Her back arched, a gasp drawing past her teeth, and her eyes snapped open as her heartbeat went frantic. She yelped incoherently, and then settled when she felt a hand on her arm. "Relax," said a hoarse voice. Madison, through a curtain of unsettlement, saw a bedraggled looking Melody. Her upper lip had been split open across her teeth, a ribbon of blood trickling down her chin, and she moved stiffly, as if bruises were coating her body.

"We have to get out of here," Madison whimpered.

Melody grinned – it was a tight, satisfied grin, and she held up a long, rusty skeleton key. "I have a plan," She said with a smile. "But we have to move fast."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I wrote this entire chapter in half an hour. I feel as though I'm going to collapse any second. Our vacation was wonderful, saw some old friends, etc., but we just got back yesterday and my time zones haven't synced up yet. Enjoy. Comment. Whatever. Blah**


	8. Of Falling Sues and Fake Manuscripts

Madison was keeping watch by the doors, wringing her hands and rubbing the back of her calf with her foot anxiously. She had always been the lookout when she was a child – whenever her few friends (or neighborhood children pretending to be her friends) would get into mischief, she would be the one on watch. Mostly because she was incredibly clumsy, which usually resulted in getting caught when they were trying to sneak cookies. But no matter how many times she had kept watch for people, it hadn't made her any better, and she knew this, so she kept glancing nervously at Melody. Melody was the picture of serenity, her long blonde hair thrown over her shoulder, chin tilted backwards, as her long, dexterous fingers manipulated the lock. It was harder than it looked, trying to open a door from the inside, but Melody had it open in ten seconds flat. She stood, and hitched her leggings up slightly. "Ten seconds," She said, twisting her lips to the side. "I'm getting rusty. I ought to practice more."

"Be careful," Madison whimpered, chewing on her knuckle. Melody raised an eyebrow.

"No, Maddie, I'm going to take as many risks as possible so we can all get caught and tortured to death." Melody replied with a roll of her eyes.

There was a plaintive little squeak.

"I'm _joking_. Jeez."

Melody's plan was simplistic, for simple plans were often the best and had the highest factor of success. She would creep down the aisle until she could see this "Creator" or whoever she was, unlock her cell, and then begin opening all the doors to the jails. Once they were all free, she was reasonably sure that they could overpower one or two Uruks and arm themselves. The main difficulty would be getting past all the seething armies of Orcs outside, but Melody wasn't too worried. Unfortunately, overconfidence was a serious downfall for her, and had always been her fatal flaw. Her feet were chilled to the bone, clad as they were in thin leather boots, and she crept down the corridor, sticking to the shadows and hoping that no Uruks would come downstairs to check on them. They seldom did this, but even the most intricate plans can be upset by something unexpected. She peered through the darkened cell at the end of the hall and gripped the rusty bars with her hands, feeling the cold, slick metal send goose bumps up her arms. "Hello? Are you okay?" She whispered into the gloom.

There was a shifting, rasping noise, as though metal were sliding against stone, and something in the darkness stirred. There was a soft gray area of light in the front of the cell, the bars casting stripes across it, but whoever or whatever was in the cage stayed in the back, in the deep shadows. Melody called again, and the peculiar noise persisted, this time accompanied by a weak, throaty groan. It was then that Melody's mind made one of it's absurd connections, and she realized what the funny sound was. Manacles scraping against stone walls. Melody stepped over to the cell door, and jammed the key into the keyhole. It was an fit, considering the locks were crude and held together by rust and luck. The one on the Author's cells had been newer, probably worked on by the ever-talented Adavis, but this one was almost absurdly easy. The door swung open with a high-pitched squall of pain. Melody slipped inside, her slender form slinking through the shadows, and her honey-brown eyes opened wide in an effort to adjust them. When they did, she could only make out half-formed shapes and dark edges, but it was enough.

A woman was chained to the wall, her arms hoisted high above her head. Her chin had sagged to her chest, and her raven hair roiled messily over her shoulders and hung in her eyes. A tattered dress, some simple calico print, hung awkwardly on her thin, starved frame. She didn't have the energy to lift her head and open her eyes, but Melody knew they would be panicked, terrified orbs of blue if they ever did open. She didn't know she was looking at Edith Tolkien, wife of the famous writer, and eternal muse for Ronald. Melody was at her side in a moment. "You're okay," She said instantly, although this was a lie. "Who are you? What happened?"

And then those eyes _did _look up, and they were glassy and dim. Her voice was a weak, painful rasp. "...Edith..." She managed to choke out. "Please...no more..."

"I can't release you now, but I will later, when the Uruks come down for our food," Melody said. "We're gonna bust outta here, all of us. There's two Authors here, me and Madison. We also have a bunch of other kids, young kids, who were brought here to be Suethors. Can you hear me? You're going to be fine, I promise you. I'll have Bear and Zeke carry you, if we have to, but we're gonna get you out."

"The...Manuscript..." The woman panted, her voice a thick gurgle. It sounded as though blood were filling her mouth, and Melody saw she was clenching the inside of her cheek to keep herself from passing out.

"Yes? You know where it is?" Melody asked, sounding desperate.

"Find it...destroy it..." She whispered, and then her head lolled to one side, entirely spent. Melody reached for her wrist and felt the woman's pulse with her fingers, feeling the dogged pulse thump through the woman's veins. She was alive, but barely. Melody's sharp ears heard the grunting shuffle of the guards coming downstairs, no doubt bearing a tray of disgusting slop – loosely titled 'food' – for the Authors. She bolted from the cell, barely hearing it clang shut behind her, and she heard Madison's panicked whisper-shout.

"Melody! Hurry!"

Madison had never seen someone move so quickly in her entire life. One blink, and Melody had shut the door to Edith's cell, and the next instant she was standing next to her. The door shut with a metallic _snick_. Madison's heart was racing wildly, and she gripped Melody's arm with her nails. Melody felt _exhilarated_ – the delightful rush of getting caught was shooting to her head. _This_ was what made stealing dangerous – the fact that she could get caught was frighteningly addictive. Something was seriously unbalanced about her, she knew that, but only professional thieves knew exactly what she was talking about.

The lush sound of fur on stone reached her ears, and they saw Shonji, flanked by two Uruks. He was taller and broader than the Uruk-hais themselves, and Melody felt a little flicker of fear against the brawny purple tiger. The beast approached the bars. _Do you have an answer for me, Author?_

"Yeah," Melody answered. "But I have a few conditions." She tried to still the shake in her voice; her system was still revved from her brush with death. "My friends and I, we all go free, if I help you."

There was no hesitation. _Obviously._

"Okay. Pass it over." Melody said, sticking her hand through the bars, palm up.

If tigers could smirk, Shonji would be doing that now. His tail swished lazily._ Not so fast, Author. I don't want you handling this while in reach of your friend. And you might want to hand over that key you have in your pocket._ At her expression of mild surprise, Shonji laid his ears flat on his head. _If you honestly though you'd outsmarted me by palming a key from one of the guards, you have another thing coming. Open the door, and come out, with the key in your hand._

Grudgingly, she opened the lock, feigning extreme difficulty, and managed to open it again, emphasizing on the loud crash. She threw the key sullenly at Shonji's paws. "There. Now, the book?"

Shonji yawned, exposing a powerful maw filled with razor sharp teeth, which seemed to be a signal to the Uruks. One of them grunted and pulled out a thick stack of paper, bound together with twine, stapled in some places, loose in others. It was coffee-stained, written on, and in general bad shape. It didn't hum, crackle, glow, or gleam. It looked like a bunch of old paper, tied together with old string. But it was much more then that.

_Behold, Author, the _true_ Manuscript. Now, I want you to write the Sues into the story. Right now. _

She licked her lips. She had to stall them, somehow.

* * *

><p>Oh, <em>God<em>, she had a headache.

It was worse than a hangover – and Daphne had always been one for the worst hangovers – it was almost a migraine. And she knew what migraines felt like, being a sufferer for years, and this was a comparatively mild one. But it still felt like rusty nails were sawing into her head when she opened her eyes, even in the dim light which shrouded her. So she closed her eyes and tried to work through her pain-stumbled mind, probing delicately at the lumpy bandage over her shoulder. There was a momentary flash of pain as she prodded the wrappings, but after that her injury was delightfully numb. Beneath her was either a shelf of solid rock or a bed made out of marble, because it was wreaking havoc on her lumbar support. On top of her was a prickly, slightly itchy woolen blanket which was chafing her exposed arms and legs. Tentatively, she began opening her eyes again, and this time the pain was not quite so acute. She peered out from cracked lids and took in her surroundings.

It looked as though she were in a low, circular cave, about ten feet by twelve feet. She was lying on a small cot built into the wall, and the realized the only padding between her and a thick slab of rock was her scratchy blanket and thin pillow. Strings of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, perfuming the air with a subtle, musky odor which reminded her of herbalist shops and Chinese markets. Several neat ceramic pots, roughly the size of cooking pans, were stacked against the far wall, and there was a curtain to her left partitioning her off from the rest of the world. The light was poor, dim, and the shadows were rampant, but it soothed her blurry vision and she managed to look a little closer at the pots. There were labels on them, covered with squiggles which made no sense. An icy sheet of panic stroked her spine, and a cold sweat broke open over her back and thighs. She shivered, wanting to cry but not quite able to work past the pain to manage it. How could someone just take away her ability to write? How was it possible?

The curtain swished and a short Dwarf with fiery red hair tamed into a ponytail came in. She was stout, as all Dwarves were, and she had a firm, no-nonsense look to her. A smudged brown apron was in her hands, and she wiped her fingers briskly before allowing the material to hang to her knees once more. "Oh, good, you're awake," She said, and her voice was rough and a little gruff. It was a decidedly masculine voice, but pleasant to hear. "It's time for you to be gettin' up, missy. No time for lollin' about. Your wound oughtta be healed by now, so you can just sit up and eat some of the soup I made."

Daphne pushed herself up on her elbows and then sat up, fingers going to her bandaged shoulder where the woman's quill had dug into her heart. She scratched at it lightly. "Where's my friend?" She asked, her voice a little hoarse but nonetheless audible. "Is he okay?"

"Who, the Author? Yes, he's fine. Now, eat some soup." The Dwarf said, and gave her a small clay bowl of soup and a wooden spoon to eat it with. The soup wasn't really a soup – it was more of a stew, with beans, meat, and thick vegetables swimming in gravy. "He's busy fightin' off some of the other youngin's. Lookin' at his book, I reckon."

"Can I see him?" Daphne asked hopefully.

"Course you can. After you eat your soup." She ordered, wagging a finger. Daphne chewed gingerly, every bite filling her stomach but lancing pain through her foggy head. After three more bites, she pushed it away. "I can't," She explained, rubbing her throat. "It's delicious, but it hurts."

Clucking her tongue, the Dwarf pulled the bowl away. "I expected as much. It'll be a-waitin' for your after you visit."

Daphne rested her throbbing head against the cool wall of the stone cave, and she heard the rasp of the curtain being drawn back again. Flicking open one eye reluctantly, she saw a very cramped looking Tolkien crouching in the small space. In the crook of his left arm was the glowing pile of papers, each one yellowed with age but undeniably pristine. Tolkien had straightened the papers and given it a new cover, making it appear very much like a nice, new book. The pages were sleek and satiny, and there seemed to be a sparkle to it. "Ah, Daphne," Tolkien said, sounding relieved. "And how are you? How do you feel?"

"Well, my head hurts like the absolute dickens," Daphne said, closing her eyes once more. "And that is a _really_ pretty looking book. Can I see it?"

Tolkien passed it over without hesitation, and Daphne settled the weight of it in her lap, skimming her fingers over the pages. This time, the tears did come, and they hurt. Her throat felt hot and blocked, and she scuffed at the tears hastily with the heels of her hands. Because the words in front of her made no sense – they were random squiggles, curving and curling in bizarre ways. Tolkien lay a hand lightly on her shoulder, and she flinched away. "Stop it," She panted bitterly, practically throwing the Manuscript back at him. "I'm useless. I can't read. I can't write. I'm _useless_!"

"No, you are not!" Tolkien snapped angrily. "Daphne, love, listen to me – we can teach you to read again. The memory of reading is still in your brain, and I swear I will do anything and everything to teach it back to you. Are we bloody clear? Because I haven't come all this damned way just to get stuck in the middle of nowhere with no bloody way to get to Gondor. I need your help, Daphne, and we can do this together."

The tears still hurt, and she pressed her fingers into her eyes until she saw stars. After a moment of struggling with her ragged breath, she looked up at him. Those silver-green eyes were fierce and determined. "Tolkien, you don't _get it_! She didn't take away my memory to read, you're right – she took away my _ability_ to read! How the hell can I write if I can't read? I can spell 'machinery', but when I try to think of what the letters look like, I can't remember! Don't you get it? I'm – stuck. I – can't – read! Ever!"

"Say that again," Tolkien said, looking interested. He had disregarded the last part of her rant. Daphne blinked at him. "Spell machinery." He ordered.

"M-a-c-h-i-n-e-r-y," She spelled waspishly, "But I don't see –"

"I do," Tolkien said excitedly. "You still remember how to spell – you just need to learn your alphabet. It's worth a try, Daphne. Please. The Dwarves will entertain us as long as we wish, and we can get moving as soon as you feel recovered."

"It can't be that easy," Daphne said slowly. "I felt it, Tolkien. She _killed my ability to write_. I felt her doing that. I don't think I can –"

"But you can try," He answered, cutting her off. "If we can't do anything else, we can try."

* * *

><p><p>

This was too easy.

They hadn't even locked the doors leading out of the cells. The only place where there were locks were on the cell doors, and those were easy to pick, in Aragorn's opinion. Not that the future King of Gondor would know such things, of course. The hardest part had been convincing Theoden to come back upstairs with them, for the Rohirric king seemed determined to sit down there. Apparently, Ethwein had told him to stay down there until she told him to come up, and _of course_, Theoden had been too happy to oblige. Eventually, Gimli got sick of it and whacked him over the head with a bench, and the king was knocked unconscious. Aragorn had raised an eyebrow but said nothing – Theoden had been _really_ annoying. So now they were outside, in front of Michael and Isabella's cell, picking the locks. Of course, Aragorn was improvising as he went along, because it wasn't a dignified thing for a king to do, pick locks. Even if it would save their lives. No, it wasn't as if he had years of experience or anything. Not at all.

"Yo," Michael called from the gloom. "You tryin' to bust us out or just rattle the bars? 'Cos I can't tell which one you're tryin' to do."

"I am picking this lock," Aragorn said in a dignified voice. Michael went over to the front of the cell and nodded wisely, stroking his chin.

"Yeah. You're pretty good that, actually," Michael said. "I bet kings have all sorts of lock-picking classes."

Aragorn opened the door with a rusty _sqqqquuuueeeeaaallll_ and frowned. "I may have been unjustly accused of crimes and locked in dungeons. One has to learn these things in order to, uh, survive."

"Right," Michael said. "Because kings get accused of crimes they don't commit all the time."

"On only one occasion was I actually jailed for a crime I did commit," Aragorn answered primly, leading a sleepy Isabella and a smirking Michael over to the stairs. Theoden woke with a pounding headache and rubbed his scalp, wondering why he was being carried bridal-style by an Elf.

Michael clapped his hands to his cheeks. "Oh, the horror! I don't think we want a _felon_ on the throne of Gondor, do we, Isabella?"

"It's not an election," Isabella yawned, sounding exhausted. "Aragorn has to be king whether he wants to or not. In many cultures, kings were selected through –"

"No history lessons," Michael answered. "We're here to throw Ethwein off a balcony, not learn about Mayan civilization.."

"You wouldn't!" Theoden cried, wriggling theatrically in Legolas's arms. "Not my precious flower, my perfect blossom, my shining star, my eternal hope! You cannot be that cruel to such an image of perfection!"

"I didn't specifically mention the Mayans, although they are an excellent example of passing down kingships," Isabella said, without turning to Theoden. "And hello, Theoden. Shut up, if you don't mind."

They arrived at the throne room, and Aragorn kicked the door open with the heel of his boot. He didn't need to – the door wasn't locked, and turning the handle would have sufficed. But it looked cool. And Aragorn wanted to make an impression. They all strode inside, determined expressions on their faces – all except for Theoden, who was whining about his "shining star". Ethwein was sitting by a window, her backless dress exposing her generous curves. The silver dress she wore was a lacy scrap of fabric which seemed to be spun from moonbeams. Her raven hair – all right, that's enough. I'm sick of describing the Sue. Let's get on with what happens next.

Theoden opened his mouth, perhaps to voice his eternal love and devotion for Ethwein, but Michael was too quick for him. The Hispanic man bounded across the throne room before the love-stricken guards, and had his hand on Ethwein's back before anyone could move. "Alley-oop," He said, and sent Ethwein plummeting down, down, down, from the Keep.

There was a sickening, ungraceful crunch, and Michael peered down at Ethwein's broken body. "I'm pretty sure she's dead," He reported. Isabella blinked.

"Well, that was anticlimactic," She observed, blinking her wide eyes. "And very inelegant. Now someone will have to clean up the body. And Sues can't die that easily. She'll probably be back."

"Of course she will," Michael said cheerfully. "But it's okay. That was fun, I can keep doing it all day."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I feel marginally better, and the last part of this chapter was written several weeks ago, so it'll look a little differently than the rest of the chapter. I updated my profile – go check it out for upcoming stories and character bios!**


	9. Of Replacements and Sort Of Explanations

She was a cunning Author, Shonji mused, his thoughts shielded behind a pair of unfathomable black eyes. Just pretty enough and just curvaceous enough to make you think she was nothing but an airhead, but when you looked into those honey-brown eyes, you could see her intelligence. Not so much her wisdom, or even brains – more of her sheer craftiness, like a fox. Acting on instinct and experience, not lessons and teaching. It was such a pity, really, he thought as he watched her reach for the quill. But of the two, he wanted to keep the smaller one. He had a soft spot for the frizzy-haired woman huddled in the cell, for some bizarre reason; he usually kept the Authors at arms length. Or paws length. His dark eyes glimmered with excitement and his tail twitched a little quicker as Melody put a quill tip to the parchment. She looked up at him, brushing a strand of thick blonde hair from her eyes. Despite being stuck in a jail cell for days with nothing to bathe in, she still had mastered that innocent rich-girl look, even with her greasy hair. "What do I do?" She asked, feigning stupidity. "Should I just write 'Adavis saved the day'? or what?"

_Write her name in the margins_, Shonji ordered, his sleek coat bristling slightly. _And then I'll release your friends._ He would keep his promise – release her and all of her friends outside, at the mercy of the Uruks. It wouldn't take long for them to be devoured by the savage monsters. But he did feel a flicker of sympathy for the small one, Madison. She would have made a nice pet, if she hadn't been an Author. Such a shame.

Melody looked down at the pages. What should she do? Sacrifice the story for the lives of her friends? She couldn't do that, not with a conscience. _You're a thief_, she snapped at herself. _Get a grip. You don't have a conscious_. But somehow, she had developed one, almost unwillingly. She knew what was right and wrong – she had been raised properly, after all. But somehow, the more she stole, the more lies she told, her morals went a little more skewed, a little more off course. Since she'd been in Middle Earth, something had been fixing her moral compass, tapping them back into place lightly. And for the life of her, she couldn't think of what, and then her honey-brown eyes lit up; It was the mission. She had a purpose. That was why she stole – she had no purpose for the stealing, she could have anything she wanted. But she _did_ have a purpose for wiring alarms, picking locks, charming judges, and getting through a maze of problems. This mission, this _quest_, was her life. She hadn't lived for twenty years, not until she got here and was given a choice. And yet ... She looked over at the Authors in the cell, all staring at her with huge eyes. They wanted to get out, she could tell. Could she doom them, keep them here with her insolence? They were _children_, thirteen, fourteen, years old. She couldn't knowingly leave them here simply because she had a purpose now. And _Madison_ – Madison had people to get back to at home. She had a family. All Melody had was a jail cell and a stern talking-to from her parents.

Her mind made up all at once, and she pressed the nib of the quill against the page.

Just before she began the first upward stroke, the door opened with a creak. Her determination and concentration shattered, and she glanced up. Shonji snarled, a ripping growl rumbling from his chest. In the doorway, looking terrified and scared, was one of the Suethors, the pudgy brunette whose name Melody didn't know. She was holding something behind her back, and Quilemna was behind her, scowling in a dangerous, beautiful way, which just made her look as though she had swallowed an egg whole to Melody. "Uh, sorry," The brunette Suethor said sheepishly. "Just wanted to, um, tell the Authors something."

_And what would that be? _Shonji barked, sounding uncannily wolfish for a great cat. _And where is your more intelligent counterpart, that abominable Amanda? _

To Melody's surprise, the brunette actually looked annoyed. "Amanda's upstairs, sleeping," She answered, and then turned to Melody, who was still standing there with the quill in her hand. "I, um, wanted to say something to Melody alone."

_That isn't an option_, Shonji spat. _Whatever you wish to tell her, you may say at this exact moment._

"It isn't something I wanted to _tell,_ so much as _show_," The brunette said, and then flicked another glance at Melody. Melody's honey-brown eyes narrowed at the object behind her back, and the brunette then sidled over. "Melody, hold out your hands," The brown-haired girl said softly, and Melody must have looked stupefied, because she added, "I won't hurt you. I promise."

Melody held out her hand, palm up, and she felt a soft, long, bedraggled object placed in her hand. There was a thunderous growl from Shonji, and Melody peered, bewildered, in her palm, and saw the strangest looking little object.

It almost looked like a quill, but it was so soot-smeared and torn up that it hardly constituted the word at all. There appeared to be blood on the tip, and Melody got a very eerie, I'm-watching-you-feeling just by holding it. Melody barely had time to catch these scant details before Shonji screamed horribly, a brutal, keening cat-scream, and lashed out at her with long, curved claws of steel. The young Authoress leaped backwards, startled beyond belief at both Shonji's terrible shout and the odd, humming feeling coming from the quill. The brunette Suethor shouted, "NOW! WRITE IT IN!"

Melody flipped open to a page at random, and stabbed the quill into the page.

Ink poured out and covered her hands, almost as though blood were spurting from a wound. It burned and blistered, and Melody shrieked aloud in pain, trying to wrench her hands from the hot, searing ink flowing along her arms and down against her legs and ankles, spattering up against her face. The pain was white-hot, unimaginable, and sending bright pops of blackness before her vision, making her throw herself forcibly against the bars of her cell, writhing and screaming. The world seemed to be ripping in two, splitting and tearing, colors and textures blending together. The pain, oh, _damn_, the pain was beyond belief, and as a hot spurt of ink lashed across her face, she lost consciousness.

Down the hall, in the last cell, a woman shackled to the wall shed a single tear, the liquid splashing on the muddied floor. A gasp, raw and pain-filled, tore from her lips, and her head sagged against her chest, death twisting icy hands around her soul. And she was finally free of the dull, aching pain, and able to give up. She let the life leave her, as if falling asleep, and she pushed herself over the brink.

Her tear didn't dry on the stones.

It shone, a fluid diamond, and then turned solid gold, staying a golden nugget on the ground.

Madison, who had been screaming for Melody, now still on the ground and covered with red, horrific scars, suddenly threw her head back, choking.

When her eyes opened again, they glowed pure gold.

Almost three hundred miles away, as Daphne and Tolkien were trying to shake off the last of the Dwarven well-wishers, Tolkien collapsed. The fake Manuscript they had been guarding so jealously turned to ash. The dwarves converged on the stricken Author, who was thrashing on the ground, the loss of his partner, his Creator, throwing him into shock. Daphne's screams drilled through the mobs of concerned shouts, and she began grabbing at his tunic, sobbing, panicked and terrified at the rapidity of his breakdown.

Over in Rohan, as a newly-recovered Theoden began directing his people towards Helm's Deep, the skies abruptly darkened and thunder rolled across the skies. For a reason Legolas didn't understand at all, his mind flashed to Madison, startled and upset. The body of Ethwein, who _had_ been killed by Michael's ungainly shove, melted into the ground seamlessly, disappearing as if she had never existed.

Adavis gasped and tripped backwards, her Sue-Aura suddenly vanishing as she hit her head against the flagstones.

Quilemna howled and clawed at her Suethor, her good-looks melting suddenly, revealing a wart-nosed, hump-backed witch.

Frodo and Sam, exhausted and near collapse in the mountains, received a fresh burst of strength.

Every single person in Middle Earth, down to the smallest child, looked up at the skies, unaware that their very story was in mourning for the loss of their Creator.

* * *

><p>It wasn't anything like falling into Middle Earth – there was no long, slow buildup of awakening and falling. There was simply nothing, and them -<p>

_BAM!_

- she was awake. It was similar to getting whacked between the eyes with a two-by-four.

Her eyes flicked open, and she sat up. Her head wasn't ringing, her mouth wasn't dry, and she wasn't drowning in a river. So far, things were going okay. She seemed to be lying on a carpeted floor, her hands rubbing against the threadbare rug, and it was dark. Not a thick, velvet dark, but a shadowy, dusky light. Blinking several times, she got to her feet and looked around. She was in the corner of what looked like a library, with oaken shelves stretching away as far as the eye could see. But instead of books, there were all manners of things – teacups, flowers, vases, even windows staring out into views from everywhere around the world. There were a few books, of course, but mostly it was just _junk_. Bewildered, Madison peered around her, pushing her glasses back up her nose, and began padding down the aisles. There didn't seem to be anybody here, nothing but lines and piles and neat stacks of the oddest assortment of items she had ever seen. She passed pens and ink wells, dresses and mannequins, lobster traps, nuts and bolts, and a million other things she couldn't recognize. She turned a corner and there was a waft of strong, hot wind which blew against her frizzy curls.

Down another aisle there were nothing but neatly labeled jars, written on in thin, spidery handwriting. They appeared to be empty, except for the labels which said _Concrete After A Soaking Rain, Gasoline, Melted Butter, Popcorn, Fresh Snow, _and a thousand other smells. Unscrewing the lid off one labeled _Gingersnaps_, Madison was hit with a thick scent of spicy, cinnamon-ginger smell. Sliding the jar back on the shelf, she continued down the aisle. At the end of the aisle, she turned left, and was confronted with a small, plain office door. Cocking her head to the side, she opened it and looked inside. To her surprise, there were people inside.

_Thousands_ of people.

People sitting, drinking coffee. Women hitching up their stockings in café windows, damp hair swinging in their faces. Men stretching their arms, lifting dumbbells, flexing, exercising. Children playing, jump-roping, hop-scotching, throwing balls. Teenagers draped over walls and benches, smoking cigarettes, laughing privately at their own jokes. Madison simply stared, mouth slack, gaping at everything.

"Excuse me, Miss, but are you the Replacement?" Said a crisp voice near her elbow. Madison jumped, and looked down at a silver-haired gentleman with a monocle in his left eye. He wore a tuxedo and looked sort of like a penguin, in Madison's opinion.

"I'm sorry...the what?" She spluttered.

"The Replacement," The man repeated, sounding a trifle annoyed. "For the Creator we just lost. We don't lose many, see, but lately we've been losing all sorts of Creators, left and right." He adjusted his monocle and glanced at her, evaluating. "Now, what story are you from?"

"Pardon?" Madison asked, and then said, "Oh! Lord of the Rings!"

The man froze. "Did you just say..._Lord of the Rings_?" He gasped. "Written by Tolkien? Oh, dear, dear, dear," He said, and patted his cheeks, looking shocked. "Edith...Oh, you poor dear, what a way to die..." He seemed quite unaware of Madison's presence. "The poor, poor thing..." He looked up at her, and composed himself. "Very well. This way, Miss."

Still bewildered, the man led her over to another corner, this one containing a plush leather seat and a steaming mug of tea on a tiny table. "This is where the Creator of the Lord of the Rings used to sit," He told Madison. "Hopefully you won't be dragged off like she was, poor thing." He said, and shook his head. Madison grabbed his arm as he began to leave.

"Wait! What is this place? What do you mean, dragged off? What's going on?" Madison asked, on the verge of tears. She always cried when confused. It was a trait she had acquired at the age of four.

The man looked a little impatient. "Well, the Demon dragged poor Edith off several months ago. We've been waiting for her either to come back or send a Substitute. You're a Replacement, which means..." Here he sighed. "It means Edith was killed as a Creator. They destroyed the Manuscript – which is a very bad thing, as I'm sure you know – and that's how they kill Creators. So you're going to take her place. And as for 'this place', it's Inspiration. We're all of the things that have Inspired Authors and Creators all over the world. Ideas, images, smells, touches, it all ingrains themselves in Creator's minds, and they usually get filtered down to Authors."

Madison's head was spinning.

"Sometimes they believe it's pure Inspiration – but that only happens very rarely. Usually it's something visual – a memory, a sight, a person. Occasionally it's a scent, or a flavor, or a feeling, but usually it's visual. This is the place where all of the Inspirations come after they've been used." He explained. "See, every object in the world – everything you can think of – has a dusting of Inspiration on it. When an Author or a Creator has passed by and taken all the Inspiration from the item, it winds up here. The Organizer spends all his time cataloguing things and putting them in the right places. See, now, Edith was a Creator – which meant, she had the original idea for a story. Tolkien took all of the Inspiration he could take off her, and when she died she came here, to be the official Creator and Protector of the _Lord of the Rings_."

Madison's head was still spinning.

"But that Demon dragged her off, and now you're here. So if you please, just go over there and sit. You won't be bored – if you feel like talking to someone, just strike up a conversation. Food will be out in a moment."

"Wait! Who's the Demon?" Madison asked, still horribly confused. It was the first question which came to mind.

The man sighed and adjusted his monocle. "He takes many forms, Miss, but he's usually in the shape of a big purple tiger. He goes from story to story, killing off Authors and Creators. He's very dangerous, Miss, and if you ever see him, kill him on the spot."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Confused yet? xD Madison is. Trust me, everything will be explained properly by the end. **


	10. Of Ominous Warnings and Storms

"What the _hell_ just happened?" Michael spluttered.

Isabella was craning her neck, glaring up at the sky, her slender brows drawn fiercely together. All around her, the citizens of Rohan were gaping up at the skies, looking at the rich black clouds which had just rolled over the blue heavens. Lightning ribbed the dark clouds, and a deep, powerful roll of thunder crashed against the sky, cracking the boundaries between horizons. There was one shivering, teetering moment of utter silence, and then lightning struck across the clouds, splitting the world in two. Rain pelted towards the ground, thick, slashing lines of liquid cutting across the earth. The wind began to pick up, buffeting the rain about and giving the droplets knifelike edges which whiplashed across the people and animals crowded in the streets of Edoras. Isabella cowered, ducking her head and running towards Michael, who was trying to shield himself from the abrupt change in weather. Another tumult of thunder caused the whole world to shake, and he could have sworn he lost his footing, but it might have been the muddy, slick ground. Horses reared and donkeys brayed, their burdens shaking free and iron-shod hooves churning the mud beneath them, cleaving against the ground. Michael grabbed at the reins of their borrowed horse, who was striking at the skies with his forelegs, screaming terrible horse screams, and Michael felt very small compared to such a beast.

And then the wailing started.

The high, unearthly shriek of winds scraping against each other smashed against their ears, tearing and screaming. Isabella's dark hair was in long, bedraggled wet ribbons, whipping against her pale cheeks and neck, stinging her, along with the slashing rain. Lightning jabbed a forked tongue of fire down towards the earth, sampling the dirt and scorching the ground. The world was bursting apart at the seams, splitting in two. All around them, children and baggage were being piled onto donkeys, horses, oxen, anything with muscles and a broad back. Men were dragging the reins of horses, whipping the backs of oxen, and slapping the flanks of donkeys to move, to continue, to run. Cart wheels spun uselessly in the thick, wet mud, and Michael caught a glimpse of a soaked Aragorn through the sheets of white, driving rain. With difficulty, Michael brought their horse to the earth and tried to keep it still while Isabella frantically mounted it, swinging one slender leg over the wide back and looking terrified at the raw muscle beneath her. Michael scrambled disgracefully aboard, and then they were off, the horse surging forward, challenging the thunder to duel and the lightning to race. Clods of mud were sprayed behind them as Michael struggled to keep their wild horse under control, and with a flame of panic he realized he couldn't. The rain was driving, a slicing crack against exposed skin, and Michael's dark hair was plastered in a dark sheet against his head. All of Edoras struggled to marshal themselves forward, and animals became mad with a surging frenzy to move, while the storm continued to lash out at them.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.

The rain petered out, the skies fading from black as pitch to a fluffy white. Michael looked up, squinting, as a new white sun began to break through the soft, downy buntings of cloud. The citizens of Edoras looked bewildered, some of them still half-bent, peering up at the sun with bemusement etched on their faces. "I repeat," Michael said hoarsely, "what the _hell_ just happened?"

"I ... don't know," Isabella began hesitantly, her brow still furrowed. She had uttered those words perhaps half a dozen times in her life. "The rapid changes in the weather, the feeling of panic ... Michael, it must have something to do with the Story."

"What makes you so sure?" Michael asked, twisting his neck to look behind him.

Isabella scowled. "I'm the genius, remember?"

"Oh, that's right, I forgot."

"Michael, think. Everyone began to panic at the same time – _except us._ Everything got deluged, and then it stopped. What does that mean?" Isabella asked.

"I thought you were the genius." Michael retorted.

An icy silence.

"Isabella, quit it. I'm not as smart as you, okay?" Michael sighed. "Quit showin' off and spit it out."

"I don't know ... _yet_," Isabella stressed the last word. "But I would give a good deal to know what's going on with our friends."

* * *

><p><em>Pain.<em>

Oh, _damn_, the pain was agonizing.

It was everywhere, a crawling, itching, burning pain which jammed into every spare corner of her mind and kept her safely secured in blackness. She couldn't move, couldn't think – everything _hurt_, a terrible pain which made every inch of skin burn white hot. Every muscle screeched for an abate to the undying, thirsting, ravaging pain which tattooed her soul. Nothing made sense – she remembered the ink, spurting over her, burning her flesh, but _why_ it had done so was beyond her. She dimly heard Ella screaming at her, telling her not to do something, but the words were garbled, tangled, messy things. Nothing penetrated her cocoon of hurt, nothing except unintelligible murmurs and whispers, the feeling of being cradled. She couldn't open her eyes – even the darkness hurt her. _Where was Madison?_

"What did you _do_ to her!" Zeke shouted, banging against the bars of his cage. His young, small face was contorted in rage. "What did you _do_?"

The purple tiger on the floor didn't answer, merely gave a little spasm and tried to clear his head. In his entire career of destroying stories, this had only happened to him twice – only _twice_ had the Manuscript been injured or destroyed. And each time, it had come as a surprise. Both times, he had underestimated the Authors – usually it was so _simple_. So straightforward. He thanked whatever divine beasts were listening that he wasn't tied to a Story – otherwise, he would be in as much pain as the blonde thief writhing on the floor. As it was, he was left with a ringing headache and a prickling buzz down his spine. With a moue of disgust, his black eyes flicked open and he glared hard at the Author. What had changed? Surely, _surely, _he wasn't losing his touch? He had lost count of the Stories he had torn apart, infected, poisoned; But these Authors...These Authors were crafty. And he had underestimated the Suethor, of all things! The sniveling, scraping, whining things which cowered and begged before him. The gutless, spineless, cringing, pathetic girls who always did as they were told. But this one – this fat brunette before him had _fire_. Oh, yes, she would one day become a fine Authoress, but not today. _Today_ he would teach her a lesson.

_Today_ he would rid the world of one less Suethor.

But before he could pounce, sink his glittering white teeth into her throat, rake his razor claws down her sides, the blonde thief on the floor stirred.

"Melody?" Zeke begged, dropping to his knees. "Melody, are you okay?"

A raspy, throaty, hoarse voice. "..._Fuck_..." She whispered, and Zeke winced at the horrible, angry red burns crossing her face and body.

"Look at me, Melody, can you see?" He pleaded anxiously. Her bleary blue eyes focused.

"..._Shit. _Yeah, I can see. Oh, _damn_, this _hurts_," She whimpered.

Shonji ignored the thick buzzing in his head and growled, low and predatory, in his throat. _You destroyed the Manuscript, foolish Author! Where is your counterpart?_ He demanded, voice rough and jagged as broken glass.

"She told me to kill it," Melody whispered. "The woman. In the cell." Her voice broke and she tried to moisten her dry lips with her parched tongue. "Where's...where's Maddie?"

"We don't know," Zeke said, close to tears. "She disappeared. There was a big flash – and a bang –"

_She was taken as a Replacement Creator!_ Shonji snapped. _The Original Creator, Edith Tolkien, died just a few moments ago. The Story chose a new Creator, someone with the highest amount of raw Inspiration. _

"You make it – _sound..._ like it's a – living – thing," Melody panted, her voice dying away.

_That's because it is, stupid girl,_ Shonji hissed. _But I can guarantee it won't be for long._

"You can't beat us!" Zeke shouted, his voice childish and querulous. "Melody's okay, and Madison is the new Creator! We'll be fine!"

_No, you won't be_, Shonji purred. _Not unless you create a new Manuscript before the Story sucks every drop of Inspiration out of your poor little friend. After that, the Story will die._ A wicked, catlike grin flickered around his whiskers. _And you can't do that unless you have all of the Authors together. And I intend to keep you here until the end of time itself. Let the Story die – it's why I came here in the first place. _

Turning his head just a fraction, he snapped at one of the Uruks standing silently by the door. _Tell the White Wizard to send out the Wargs. Let's give the other two Authors something to think about. _

* * *

><p>She was <em>tired<em>.

The armchair was luxuriously comfortable, and there was a bottomless cup of sweet tea near her elbow. The tea was always hot and delicious, probably caffeinated, but no matter how much she drank, she always felt sleepy. The people around her kept shooting her nervous looks, as though they were waiting for her to strip down to her birthday suit and streak around the room screaming 'Merry Christmas'. There was so much _movement_ – color, flashes, activity, all whirling around her. She wanted to _sleep_. Drowsily, she groped for her tea and tried to worry about her friends. But the confusion and bewilderment which had possessed her only moments ago had melted away. Was it moments? Time was elastic here, sly and furtive. It might have been years. How long had she been here? But this question hurt her head, made her drowsiness increase. She needed answers, but her body felt thick and obtuse. There was no sign of Mr. Penguin – as she had begun calling him in her mind – so she decided to strike up a conversation with one of the people milling around her.

There was an attractive young man lounging on a couch near her, and she sidled over to him, sitting on the opposite end of his couch. He had slicked back blonde hair, and a toothpick was dangling from the corner of his mouth. A stiff leather jacket – so familiar, how was that jacket familiar? – hung awkwardly on his lean frame, and tight jeans were tucked into black boots. The boy had a youthful, invincible aura which seeped a little bit of life into her – which aroused another question. Why was he awake and fresh while she was dim and drifting? "Hey," He said casually.

"Hi," Madison said easily. She had a queer, drifting, drowsy feeling which was sucking away her emotions. Usually she would never feel this relaxed around _anybody_, but she felt odd. Nicely odd, but there was a lurking premonition around her. Her overwhelming vocabulary – so large it frightened people, occasionally – was drizzling away, sucked slowly down a drain. "So, what Story are you from?" She asked lazily, leaning back against the couch. To her left, several children were playing a game of jacks and watching her closely. Somehow, their stares seemed menacing, rather than inquisitive. And why were the corners of her vision blurring ever so slightly?

"Huh?" The boy asked, furrowing his brow. "Whaddya mean, Story?"

"You know, Inspiration?" Madison prompted. _Inspiration_ ... Yes, this is how it feels to be completely _bored_, she realized. And _sleepy_.

"Oh, that," The boy shrugged. "_Rebel Without A Cause_. Whaddya want?"

"I want to get out of here."

She hadn't meant it to sound so bald, so stupid, but now that it was out in the air, she didn't think it sounded all that bad. The boy, however, nearly swallowed his toothpick and spat it out a moment later.

"Pfft. You can't get outta here unless you get permission from the Organizer. An' he never comes out." The boy sneered.

"Will you help me?" Madison asked, feeling unnaturally sleepy and bold. It was the oddest feeling in her life – almost as if she were too tired to care.

The boy curled his lip. "Fat chance. Bug off, crazy lady."

Madison retreated back to her armchair, crossing her legs, and then took a sip of her tea. She needed an audience with the Organizer, whoever he was. She would have to do some more research. But for now, she just wanted a little nap...

Just a _tiny _nap.

Little by little, her Inspiration ebbed out of her to feed the poisoned Story she was trying to protect.

* * *

><p>Rushing, tangled dreams and confusing ideas swarmed busily in his head. What had happened? He knew what had happened. The Manuscript had been injured. The Creator had died. In his Training, he had been told it would be painful, but it had been <em>agony<em>. His knees had shot out from underneath him and he passed out so quickly his brain hardly had time to register the fierce, intense pain. But he had, because even now, as he was slowly awakening, wisps of pain still circled around his brain. But for the most part, it had gone, and he wondered dumbly why. And then it hit him with the force of the storm currently raging above ground: There was a Replacement.

The question was, who?

His eyes snapped open and he sat up. Almost instantly he felt a hand on his chest, pushing him back down. "Tolkien! Oh, God, I was so worried!" Daphne's voice penetrated the fog in his head. "What happened? The Manuscript disintegrated, and you fainted, and –"

"Damn," He spat the curse out between clenched teeth, and threw the covers back. "Damn, damn, damn, _damn._"

"What?" Daphne asked, trying unsuccessfully to get him back into bed.

"We didn't get the actual Manuscript," Tolkien growled. Daphne's attempts to get him back into bet faltered and then stopped completely.

"What? You mean I activated that stupid thing for nothing? Lost my ability to read _or write_ for _nothing_?" Daphne sputtered, her voice rising to a keening note on the last few words. "Are you _serious_?"

"Very much so. And the Creator died," Tolkien ground out, fighting back his headache.

"Hold on. Back up a second. What's a Creator?" Daphne asked.

"A Creator is the person who originally thought of the idea for a Story," Tolkien began, massaging his temples and turning to Daphne. "In this case, it would be my wife, Edith. And Author is the person who writes it down, which would be me. Both the Creator and the Author have to be fully functional and healthy for the Story to be alive and strong. Obviously, my wife has been ill for some time, which might be how those bloody Suethors got here in the first place – the story was weakened, which means Edith was weakened. And now, for the Story to continue, it had to choose another Creator from the available Authors. Normally, there are two Authors in a Story at all times – an Author, and an Apprentice, so usually to Story would choose the Apprentice."

"But why the Apprentice?" Daphne queried, following him outside of their cave and into the thronging mass of brightly clad dwarves.

"Because Apprentices usually have the highest amount of raw Inspiration," Tolkien answered, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the din.

"What's Inspiration?" Daphne shouted.

"Inspiration is just that – Inspiration. Muses are made entirely of Inspiration, as you might have noticed, and it's hard to make Muses properly. But that's a long, tricky process and I won't be going into it now. At any rate, everything in the world has a dusting of Inspiration on it, for Authors and Creators to pick up. When you see an item with Inspiration on it, you remember it for a Story – are you following me so far, darling?" Tolkien called over his shoulder.

"I think so!" Daphne called back, her head trying to make all of his information fit. "So who is the new Creator? And is it permanent?"

"I don't know," Tolkien shouted. "But it definitely isn't permanent. Without a fully functional, unhurt Manuscript to draw off of, the Story will leach power off of whoever the new Creator is until there's no Inspiration left."

"And what happens then?" Daphne asked, a tremor in her voice.

"Then, dear, the Story will die. And that will be the end of everything."

Time slowed to a crawl. "So how do we make a new Manuscript?" Daphne demanded, a definite note of panic in her voice.

"We must make a new Manuscript, love. We need all the Authors – all of your Stories, we need them together. And it might not work. I'm not sure." Tolkien answered.

"How do you know all this?" Daphne said, finally catching up to him. He looked at her and sighed.

"I was Trained, of course. When I first created Middle Earth, published them, I was trained." Tolkien said softly.

"By who?"

"A person called the Organizer. He trains all new Authors."

* * *

><p><p>

**A/N: Confused? Bewildered? Good! xD However, I have two things I want you to do – no, actually three. **

**1) Go check out my daughter's fanart of these stories. Izzy is coming up on eleven, but she's pretty good for an eleven year old. I can't draw for beans, and I'm three times her age. She's known as Sleek-Otter on deviantart, and here's the link . **

**2) Vote in the poll on my profile! I have a new one – which fandom should the Ink Warriors go to next? Each fandom will feature new Authors, Sues, etc. All of those listed will eventually be written, but whatever you vote the most for, that's the one I'll write first. **

**3) REVIEW! xD **


	11. Of Deaths and Flashbacks

_She was a pretty girl. Short, with strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, big brown eyes which seemed sunken into her face and weary beyond her years. Slim and petite, she was still dressed in a slightly crumpled McDonald's uniform, ketchup stains on the hem, and seemed to be getting off the night shift. She didn't belong in this neighborhood – she looked too weak, too tired, too pretty. There was no wedding ring on her finger, and as he rolled by he suddenly knew her life story in the blink of an eye. She would probably go home, dump her keys on the cold kitchen counter, and pour herself a glass of cheap wine to make herself feel better. And then, she would slide into bed, too exhausted and wrung-out to even think of a bath or a shower. Maybe she had a kid, or she lived with her mother, or her boyfriend; he didn't know. But he did know that he had to get her off the streets, because it was two o'clock in the morning and she was walking straight into gang territory. There were two major gangs around here, the Wolves and the Daddies, and either one of them would be eager to mug or harass a young, pretty blonde woman late at night. _

_So he pulled up alongside her, rolled down the window. "Hey, you need a lift?" He called out. Of course, her grip on her purse tightened, and she transferred the bag from her shoulder to her hand. She spared him one glance, and one glance was enough – she saw a young, rebellious Hispanic man with an earring and a tattoo. The very kind of person he was trying to protect her from was the kind of person she saw sitting behind the wheel. _

_"No, thanks." She said tightly, walking a little quicker. He didn't want to push it – half of him wanted to follow her, to make sure she was okay, but that would be unnaturally creepy and probably freak her out for the next couple of days. So he accelerated and took the corner, his instinct telling him to go back. _

_Michael hadn't grown up not listening to his instinct. You can't, not in New York City. It was hard to shove the urge down his throat, but he did so, and he was half a block away before he cut his losses and turned around. He would get out of the car, explain his intentions, and drop her home. Because seriously, a woman walking home on Friday night was asking for trouble. _

_But he was too late. He was always too late, no matter how many times he replayed the scene in his mind. _

_There were three of them, skinny, tattooed gang members with knives. By the time he got there, they had fled with her purse and left her on the sidewalk, a slashed stomach bleeding crimson onto her yellow tee shirt. He didn't even stop the car fully, he just flung open the door and skidded to her side, dropping to his knees and cradling her head. She was wheezing, coughing, trying to get air into her lungs, and she spattered blood on him as she sobbed and died. It took a full ten minutes for her to die fully, enough time for Michael to roar for help, to alert somebody, anybody. Lights flicked on, and sleepy hands automatically dialed 911. In this neighborhood, this was nothing new. _

_She died en route to the hospital, or so he was told. The ambulance wouldn't let him in. _

_He was hailed as a "Good Samaritan", in the local papers, and it was his actions which earned the woman a tiny column less than two inches wide. Her name had been Alexia Dennings, and she had been twenty six, leaving behind her boyfriend and a young daughter. Of course, he went to the funeral – it had been a simple affair. He brought the biggest bouquet there, and it was a sad little affair – less than five people came to her funeral, including her wizened old mother, her daughter, and her boyfriend. The boyfriend had been a mostly clean-shaven young man, with no piercings or other adornments. He looked weak, though, and he didn't even hold his daughter during the whole service. The mother was the only one who cried. _

_But the daughter, the daughter had the same strawberry blonde hair as her mother. She was five or six, maybe, with one of those adorable faces that only small children have. And she gave him such a look, as he put his bouquet of lilies near the casket, such a hateful look of loathing, that he actually recoiled. It kept him up nights – _why_ hadn't he turned around sooner? He _knew_ it was a bad neighborhood, knew that she would be hurt, and yet he drove away from her. He could have made her understand. He could have - _

"Michael, you're swearing again."

Isabella's snotty, clipped voice broke through his thoughts. He jerked a little, his half-asleep state rippling off him, and shot Isabella a glare. They had been traveling for nearly two days, taking turns on the strong bay horse which seemed exhausted, and Michael had drowsed off the sleep again in the saddle. This in itself told of Michael's extreme weariness – the ride was bumpy and uneven, as anyone who has actually ridden a horse would attest to. From the previous deluge of rain, the earth shifted beneath the weight of carts and feet, barrow wheels gouging deeply into the dirt, and the iron-shod hooves of horses sinking into the mud. The sky was the overcast colour of spoiled milk, but despite this, the sun was glaringly bright behind the sheet of clouds. Michael slapped his unshaven cheeks and rubbed the tiredness out of his dark eyes. "Cover your ears then," He grumbled. "Can't stop my head from thinkin' when I sleep."

"Could you possibly instruct your head to think when you're awake? I'm positive its far more constructive," Isabella said snidely. The mud and chill were getting to her.

Michael opened his mouth to voice a retort, quite possibly a very piquant insult which would degrade Isabella in some New Yorker fashion, when Aragorn came tearing over the hill. The warrior's dark hair was flying behind him, and his gray eyes were wild. "Wargs! We're under attack! Wargs!"

There was instant pandemonium, women and children beginning to scream and scatter. The Rohirric soldiers drove their heels into the flanks of their horses, surging seamlessly together to mount the crest of the hill. Theoden roared orders to Eowyn, and the blonde woman began gathering up women and children, trying to keep them together. Isabella looked completely unperturbed – after all, they had been expecting this. Michael grabbed her forearm and hauled her onto the horse, twisting the skin on her arm in his haste. She yelped and swatted at him, but he snapped an incoherent shushing noise to better listen. Their ears strained to hear the noises over the chaos, and when they did hear it, they both paled. They could hear the savage snarls of Wargs, the inhuman shrieks of Orcs as the two lines met, metal thudding into flesh. There were war cries and yells of pain, and the long column of Edoras citizens were panicking, running in various directions, hugging children to them. Michael goaded the burdened horse forward slightly, gut fluttering with the wings of a thousand birds, palms damp from nervousness. There was a nearly instant adrenaline high, and he looked around for a weapon. Any weapon – a knife, a sword. Aragorn's fighting began to shimmer in the forefront of his mind, and he swung his leg over the horse, dismounting with eerie grace. Isabella looked at him, confused, and then her brows came sharply together. "Michael Rodriguez, get back here right now!" She yelled shrilly. "Do not go into that battle, Michael! You're too valuable!"

He ignored her, and nearly ran slap-bang into a frantic Eowyn. "Your knife!" He bellowed at her.

She understood, slapping her poniard into his hand, the straight blade winking in the light, and shouted something after him, something which went masked by the sound of battle and the hysterical screams of women. Michael pounded over the hillside and into the fray, determined to help Middle Earth. He wasn't going to sit back idly on the sidelines, holding up his ink-stained hands as a badge of freedom! He was going to fight, and win! He saw he was at an immediate disadvantage – they were on Wargs and horses, and he was on foot. Arrows were whistling through the air, their flights cut short by bodies and throats, and he saw Gimli tumble off his horse. Legolas was fighting somewhere, his blonde hair fanning behind him, supple yew bow a blur of wood. He couldn't distinguish details – everything was blurred, hazy, but he shot towards the nearest furry creature he saw. When the beast turned, Michael felt sick to his stomach.

The movies or the books hadn't done Wargs justice – squat, bowlegged creatures with barrel chests and mottled brown fur, the beast was enormous; easily the size of a loveseat. A shoebox sized head turned towards him, and a row of yellowed, glistening fangs were exposed in a throaty growl as it prepared to pounce. A spike of fur ran from between its ears to between its haunches, and massive scarred paws rose up as it lunged for him. Michael felt the force collide with him, sheer muscle wrapped in steely sinew, and brought the dagger to low ward, embedding the full length of the blade in the belly of the animal. It screamed, a hideous canine howl, and Michael felt claws sinking into his ribs, curved claws of sharpened steel, and a hot, slobbery maw strained to reach his throat. Michael drove the hilt farther into the Warg's belly, pulling with all his might upwards, dragging the blade up and spilling a gush of sticky, hot blood over his legs and clothes. It tightened instinctively in the throes of death, and nearly rolled on top of Michael as he wrestled with the dying creature.

_Stupid, stupid boy!_

Aragorn saw him – of course he saw him, the boy was impossible to miss. No armor, no shield, no weapon save for a dagger, dressed in nothing but a tunic and leggings. He was wrestling with a riderless Warg, covered in blood, his nose bleeding profusely, teeth bared in a feral grimace. He goaded Brego towards the boy, changing his direction, and seized the scruff of the boy's tunic as he passed. Michael let out a shout of surprise and anger as he was drawn bodily into the air, over Brego's back, and against Aragorn. "Stupid child!" Aragorn hissed in his ear as he sent a javelin flying into the neck of a Warg about to tear Gimli's face off. "Stupid child! Stay with the others, I cannot have you risking your life!"

"I'm not gonna stay outta this!" Michael growled back, fighting to be free of Aragorn's grip.

There was an earth-shattering crash, louder than thunder, as if the very earth had split in two, and the world went white for a second. Every head turned towards Gandalf, who was raising his staff aloft, chanting something in a terrible voice. Cracks appeared in the soft earth, crumbling gaps stretching into shaking chasms as the might of a wizard was revealed. Brego backpedaled instantly, and Aragorn turned the horse, edging away from the openings and sending his sword sawing through the neck of an Orc as he did so.

Out of nowhere, a Warg-rider vaulted one of the gaps and slammed into Gandalf. The world lost the gauzy white tinge as the spell was broken, and both Aragorn and Michael roared out "NO!" as the wizard was dragged bodily across the field. Aragorn's heels smashed against Brego's sides, forcing the horse forward, the war-horse jumping over the openings in the earth and following the Warg. The Warg itself was running blindly, paws striking against the earth, and Michael caught a glimpse of Gandalf being torn underneath long, razor-sharp claws as the Warg plunged towards the edge of the cliff. All thoughts of canon went to hell in Michael's mind – _This is supposed to be Aragorn_! – before the Warg-rider was thrown off his mount by Gandalf's staff.

And then the Warg shot off the cliff and plunged into the abyss, Gandalf bruised and bleeding behind it.

* * *

><p>"Okay, buster, you better sit down and explain <em>everything<em>," Daphne growled, catching Tolkien by the elbow and spinning him around. The older Englishman's chocolate brown eyes were hard and sharp as he shook Daphne off distractedly.

"There is no time," He snapped. "Come, we must depart. The dwarves will understand, there is no _time_, Daphne! Something is very wrong, and now we are under a time schedule."

"I don't understand," Daphne pleaded, trotting behind him, swinging her leg over the short-legged goat which was the best form of transportation underground. The dwarves had given the three – one for Tolkien, one for Daphne, and one for supplies. The goats were roughly the size of a golf cart, with thick black horns curling between small, tufted ears. It would be far more comfortable than a horse, due to the wide, shaggy back, but they didn't so much as walk as _skip_, prancing from one bound to the next. Tolkien mounted his goat, turning to Daphne with an urgent look on his face.

"The only thing we know for certain is that one of your friends is being drained of Inspiration, and if we don't reunite all of the Authors soon, then your friend will be written out of the Story – and depending on how far along in their rewritten copy they were, it will be _extremely_ painful. All of the Authors have to be in place, all of the copies have to be together, for this to work." Tolkien explained as their goats waded through the sea of Dwarven well-wishers, all of them somber and large eyed as their idols left.

"Who is the Organizer?" Daphne asked, teeth clicking together as the goat bounced along merrily.

"The Originator of Words," Tolkien called over his shoulder. "It's said he created Stories themselves, planted ideas in people's minds. He is the one who puts Inspiration on things, breathes it into the very air – nobody quite knows who or what he is. I spent a bit learning with him – he is a temperamental instructor, but thorough."

"So where are we going?" Daphne called.

Tolkien's face was grim. "Gondor."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: One or two points: **

**1) I just got a PM from somebody who pointed out a big loophole in my story. (You know who you are!) In answer, YES, I wanted to really explore the culture and destinies of the Dwarves who found Daphne and Tolkien, I really did. But there isn't time – the story is moving really slowly. I mean, we're ten chapters in and we haven't even REACHED Helm's Deep. I originally wanted them to be a sort of cult race of Dwarves who were searching for the Manuscript, in order to write themselves richer. Yes, I know it's a bit cliché to make Dwarves power-hungry and selfish, but that's what I was going to do. And I was going to give Daphne and Tolkien a whole escort to Gondor, but I wanted it to be frenzied and rushed, not a sedate walking speed. So hence this patchwork. **

**2) EXCUSE TIME! A couple of excuses sewn together badly – It started off when I was snooping around on you guys' profiles. Yes, I do read your profiles, I'm checking you guys out and looking at your favorites list, etc. I stumbled on TheWordMasterOfFiction's profile, who described me as "a writer whose ideas are not exactly original, but she nevertheless manages to put her own spin on it and make them enjoyable." Or something along those lines. That isn't a direct quote. Well, I mentioned this at dinner, and James thought it described me to a T. We then began bouncing idea of the MOST cliched story ideas, and he volunteered Twin!Harry. I got ticked onto a whole plethora of Twin!Harry fics, and I'm sort of obsessed with them now. That, coupled with my writer's block, led to the _Harry and Jean_ series. Which I started ... yesterday. **

**Go on, slap me now. You can check it out if you want. Maugh. **


	12. Of Skimming and Inspiration

"Sir, we can't keep doing this!"

He liked his young assistant – she was pretty, a redhead, and with an extreme amount of talent concerning writing. But she was stupid – stupid enough to get herself written out of the story she was supposed to protect. He had trusted her to rid the written world of the Demon, and she had failed. So she was back to being his assistant, his lackey essentially, and now she had the gall to tell him what to do. She had always been spirited, which was what drew characters to her naturally; it was the affection of a character which had made it so easy to bring her back to Inspiration, instead of letting her go back home to her pathetic life behind a desk. Well, now she had a pathetic life behind a desk, but she was working for _him._ Wizard of words, creator of characters, genius of stories. At first, the feisty girl had been proud and grateful to be his assistant, as she should be, but the longer she stayed in Inspiration, she more bossy she became. The power was going to her head, and he needed to put her back in her place. He sighed to himself, checking the pulse of the young woman in front of them. Madison, her name was – Madison Poole. At first, he hadn't been able to believe himself when he saw the amount of pure Inspiration she had humming through her veins, quivering along her fingertips. It was unnatural, really, that amount of talent surging through her mind. He had never seen anything like it, it was most curious. Of course, he hadn't counted on the Story being in such disrepair when more Authors were finally brought in. He had _told_ Tolkien that bringing in one or two wouldn't be enough – they needed more juice to full purge the Story of both the Demon and the Sues.

"I will remind you that I am in charge here," He snapped at his young assistant. "And you are merely my apprentice. Surely you can see the amount of Inspiration she has."

"That's what I worried about," The girl shot back. "Even if, by some miracle, the fanfiction Authors get together and fix the story – which is nearly _impossible_ at this stage – if we send her back home, it'll take her weeks to get all her Inspiration back! She might _never_ get it back! Is that really what you want to do, just let her _sit_ here while _you_ control Inspiration? I know you've helped Authors before, why aren't you helping _her_?"

"She was uncannily close to the Demon, that is why, you foolish girl," He snarled. "He showed favor to her, something he has _never_ done before. I do not trust her in the slightest."

"Look at her!" His assistant yelped. "She's _adorable_! Who wouldn't be close to her?"

He looked down at the disheveled young woman unconscious on the sofa, the woman who was studiously being avoided by all of the people in the room. Her hair was a rats nest, and her skin had a gray, sickly pallor to it. Her Inspiration was ebbing away, and it really was fascinating that she had lasted this long. He arched an eyebrow at his redheaded assistant. "I see an unconscious young woman with glasses and frizzy hair. I fail to see the charm."

"You can't punish her for what the Demon did to you!" She snapped, voice icy. "It's not _her_ fault. And anyway, if she was in cahoots with the Demon, why would she be here? The Story would know, the Story can always tell when something's amiss. It wouldn't have picked her to become the next Creator, and you know it. It's cruel of you to just _withhold_ care because you have a _hunch_! Now, go get her some of your Inspiration, I know you've been skimming it." She looked squarely into his flat, silver eyes, and put her hands on her hips. One of the things he liked about her was that she didn't flinch when she looked at him. As of late, everyone flinched.

The Organizer was not made out of Inspiration, like Muses – instead, he _created_ Inspiration, fed off it, breathed it, the Inspiration flowing through his veins as freely as blood. He breathed life into characters, knew what stimulation would create different stories, and placed it in the hands of Authors. It was a carefully arranged game – no idea was original, not truly so. Every idea had gone through him, even the bad ones, even the ones with appalling Mary Sues. Because, until the Demon started chewing through Stories, there was absolutely no way to put Mary Sues in Stories, not permanently, anyway. Perhaps one or two would get through a loophole and fester there, but the Authors in charge would always incapacitate it before too long. It was one of the reasons every Story only needed one Author and one Apprentice – none of the Mary Sues stuck, none of them wrecked canon, not until the Manuscripts started failing. And as the Organizer, he fed off stories – if every story and idea died, then he would die as well. Of course, that was impossible, an notion which didn't seem to apply to the Demon.

"I see," The Organizer said softly. "And how would you know this, mm?"

"You want to stay strong," She said, her voice softening, "and I _get_ that. But you've been skimming Inspiration from places, from people – it's the reason why there are so many bad fanfictions out there. You just have to look at all of the deplorable Stories outside in the real world to know that someone's been siphoning off Inspiration. And I know the Demon tearing through Stories is hurting you, I know that too. But that's why I'm here, sir, to _help _you. And please, we need to help her. Please."

He turned to her, queer silver eyes never blinking. "You need her alive because you want to send her back to the Story, don't you?" He murmured. "You've seen the friendship between her and your little elf prince."

She colored. "He's not my little elf prince," She said hotly. "He's a friend."

"And you don't want your friend to be sad, do you?" He pointed out, smirking a little. "There is an attachment between the woodelf and this girl, yes?" He said.

She swallowed hard. "Yes."

"Then it should be quite simple to send her back when the Authors get their Manuscripts together," He said. "And they shall have to do it quickly, because little Madison's time is running out."

"_Sir_! You can't seriously refuse her Inspiration, sir! It's cruel, and it puts you on the same level as the Demon!" She shouted, horrified.

"I am nothing like the Demon!" He bellowed. "You forget your place! You are my apprentice, nothing more!"

"I am also an Author," She hissed.

"You _were_ an Author," He reminded her cruelly, voice cold. "You failed, as I recall."

"I couldn't do it alone," She growled. "There's _five_ of them in there, and they still can't do it."

"She gets nothing," The Organizer said tonelessly. "If she cannot pull through, then the Story will merely take another Author."

Rebellion flared hard in her chest. "Sir, I'm not letting her get stripped of Inspiration," She snarled. "Its bad enough you took away Daphne's gift."

"Would you prefer I let her die?" The Organizer bit back. "The Manuscript they activated was false, and it was cursed by the Demon, you know that – I did what I could, I directed the curse towards her ability to write instead of her life."

"You cut off her Inspiration, just like you're doing to her!" She shouted, pointing at Madison. "You can't let her die, sir, you _can't_!"

"She won't die," He replied calmly. "Merely be sent to Camp to recover."

"Camp Write-Right? You would send her _there_, of all places, surrounded by Suethors?" She asked, bewildered to the point of near-tears. "Sir, _please_. Please, just give her a little. She's in pain, sir, you of all people should know how it feels to be starved of Inspiration!"

He paused.

"She is stronger than I," He whispered. "She will survive."

"Sir!" She screamed. "Sir, you can't do this!"

"I can," He answered quietly. "I can, but I won't."

Her heart hammered in her chest, breathless, savage sobs threatening to tear from her throat.

"Give her a dose," He said. "A small one. Enough to buy her a few days."

Felicity had never been happier to obey orders.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: We're having some pretty big family issues in our household right now, so I'm afraid life is sort of keeping me from writing. I really, truly apologize for not updating quickly, and for making this such a short chapter, I'm just so frazzled and exhausted right now. We don't often fight, but when we fight, we _brawl_. So I hope this chapter answered a few questions and raised a few more. Vote for the cutest couple in my profile. **


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